THE  MISSIONER 


E.PHILLIPS  OPPENHEIM 


The  Missioner 


*«DO    YOU    MIND    EXPLAINING    YOURSELF?"   SHE    ASKED. 

[Page  23.]    FROMJSIMI.I  i.. 


The  Missioner 


BY  E.  PHILLIPS  OPPENHEIM 


Author  of  "Anna,  the  Adventuress,"  "A  Prince  of 
"Sinners,"  "The  Master  Mummer,"  etc. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS 
By  FRED  PEGRAM 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  1907, 
BY  THK  PEARSON  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 

Copyright,  1907, 
BY  I^TTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 

All  rights  reserved. 


Published  January,  1909. 
Fourth  Printing 


StacK 

Annex 


CONTENTS 
BOOK  I 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I     MISTRESS  AND  AGENT      ...  1 

II     THE  HUNTER  AND  HIS  QUARRY          .  IS 

III  FIRST  BLOOD 22 

IV  BEATING  HER  WINGS        .         .         .32 
V     EVICTED          .....  41 

VI     CRICKET  AND  PHILOSOPHY         .          .  52 

VII     AN  UNDERNOTE  OP  Music         .          .  61 

VIII     ROSES    .          .          .          .          .          .70 

IX     SUMMER  LIGHTNING          ...  78- 

X    THE  STILL  FIGURE  IN  THE  CHAIR       .  85 

XI     THE  BAYING  OF  THE  HOUNDS    .          .  93 

XII     RETREAT 100 

XIII  A  CREATURE  OF  IMPULSE  .         .         .  105 

XIV  SEARCHING  THE  PAPERS    .         .          .  114 
XV     ON  THE  SPREE          ....  121 

XVI     THE  NIGHT  SIDE  OF  LONDON     .          .  129 

XVII    THE  VICTIMS  OF  SOCIETY           .         .  138 

XVIII     LETTY'S  DILEMMA    ....  147 

XIX     A  REPORT  FROM  PARIS     .          .          .  155 

XX     LIKE  A  TRAPPED  ANIMAL.  162 


CONTENTS 
BOOK  II 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  RATHER  A  GHASTLY  PART           .         .     172 

II  PLAYING  WITH  FIRE  ....     180 

III  MONSIEUR  s' AMUSE    ....     188 

IV  AT  THE  "DEAD  RAT"         .         .         .196 

V  THE  AWAKENING       ....     204 

VI  THE  ECHO  OF  A  CRIME       .         .         .     210 

VII  A  COUNTRY  WALK     .         .         .         .218 

VIII  THE  MISSING  LETTY           .         .         .227 

IX    FOILED! 235 

X  MYSTERIES  IN  MAYFAIR      .         .         .     244 

XI  THE  WAY  OF  SALVATION    .         .         .253 

XII    JEAN  LE  Roi 262 

XIII  THE  KING  OF  THE  APACHES        .         .271 

XIV  BEHIND  THE  PALM  TREES  .         .         .281 

XV  THE  ONLY  WAY         .         .         .         .289 

XVI     MAN  TO  MAN 296 

XVII  LORD  AND  LADY  BOUNTIFUL       .         .    304 


THE  MISSIONER 

BOOK  I 
CHAPTER  I 

MISTRESS  AND  AGENT 

THE  lady  of  Thorpe  was  bored.  These  details 
as  to  leases  and  repairs  were  wearisome. 
The  phrases  and  verbiage  confused  her.  She  felt 
obliged  to  take  them  in  some  measure  for  granted; 
to  accept  without  question  the  calmly  offered  advice 
of  the  man  who  stood  so  respectfully  at  the  right 
hand  of  her  chair. 

"This  agreement  with  Philip  Crooks,"  he  re- 
marked, "is  a  somewhat  important  document. 
With  your  permission,  madam,  I  will  read  it  to 
you. " 

She  signified  her  assent,  and  leaned  wearily 
back  in  her  chair.  The  agent  began  to  read.  His 
mistress  watched  him  through  half  closed  eyes. 
His  voice,  notwithstanding  its  strong  country 
dialect,  had  a  sort  of  sing-song  intonation.  He 
read  earnestly  and  without  removing  his  eyes  from 
the  document.  His  listener  made  no  attempt  to 
arrive  at  the  sense  of  the  string  of  words  which 
flowed  so  monotonously  from  his  lips.  She  was 
occupied  in  making  a  study  of  the  man.  Sturdy 
and  weather-beaten,  neatly  dressed  in  country 


clothes,  with  a  somewhat  old-fashioned  stock,  with 
trim  grey  side-whiskers,  and  a  mouth  which  re- 
minded her  somehow  of  a  well-bred  foxhound's, 
he  represented  to  her,  in  his  clearly  cut  personality, 
the  changeless  side  of  life,  the  side  of  life  which  she 
associated  with  the  mighty  oaks  in  her  park,  and 
the  prehistoric  rocks  which  had  become  engrafted 
with  the  soil  of  the  hills  beyond.  As  she  saw  him 
now,  so  had  he  seemed  to  her  fifteen  years  ago. 
Only  what  a  difference !  A  volume  to  her  —  a 
paragraph  to  him!  She  had  gone  out  into  the 
world  —  rich,  intellectually  inquisitive,  possessing 
most  of  the  subtler  gifts  with  which  her  sex  is  en- 
dowed; and  wherever  the  passionate  current  of  life 
had  flown  the  swiftest,  she  had  been  there,  a  leader 
always,  seeking  ever  to  satisfy  the  unquenchable 
thirst  for  new  experiences  and  new  joys.  She 
had  passed  from  girlhood  to  womanhood  with  every 
nerve  of  her  body  strained  to  catch  the  emotion 
of  the  moment.  Always  her  ringers  had  been 
tearing  at  the  cells  of  life  —  and  one  by  one  they 
had  fallen  away.  This  morning,  in  the  bright 
sunshine  which  flooded  the  great  room,  she  felt 
somehow  tired  —  tired  and  withered.  Her  maid 
was  a  fool!  The  two  hours  spent  at  her  toilette 
had  been  wasted!  She  felt  that  her  eyes  were 
hollow,  her  cheeks  pale!  Fifteen  years,  and  the 
man  had  not  changed  a  jot.  She  doubted  whether 
he  had  ever  passed  the  confines  of  her  estate.  She 
doubted  whether  he  had  even  had  the  desire.  Wind 
and  sun  had  tanned  his  cheeks,  his  eyes  were  clear, 
his  slight  stoop  was  the  stoop  of  the  horseman  rather 
than  of  age.  He  had  the  air  of  a  man  satisfied  with 


MISTRESS  AND  AGENT  3 

life  and  his  place  in  it  —  an  attitude  which  puzzled 
her.  No  one  of  her  world  w  >,s  like  that !  Was  it 
some  inborn  gift,  she  wondered,  which  he  possessed, 
some  antidote  to  the  world's  restlessness  which  he 
carried  with  him,  or  was  it  merely  lack  of  intelligence? 

He  finished  reading  and  folded  up  the  pages,  to 
find  her  regarding  him  still  with  that  air  of  careful 
attention  wTith  which  she  had  listened  to  his  mono- 
tonous flow  of  words.  He  found  her  interest  sur- 
prising. It  did  not  occur  to  him  to  invest  it  with 
any  personal  element. 

"The  agreement  upon  the  whole,"  he  remarked, 
"is,  I  believe,  a  fair  one.  You  are  perhaps  think- 
ing that  those  clauses 

"If  the  agreement  is  satisfactory  to  you,"  she 
interrupted,  "I  will  confirm  it." 

He  bowed  slightly  and  glanced  through  the  pile 
of  papers  upon  the  table. 

"I  do  not  think  that  there  is  anything  else  with 
which  I  need  trouble  you,  madam,"  he  remarked. 

She  nodded  imperiously. 

"Sit  down  for  a  moment,  Mr.  Hurd, "  she  said. 

If  he  felt  any  surprise,  he  did  not  show  it.  He 
drew  one  of  the  high-backed  chairs  away  from  the 
table,  and  with  that  slight  air  of  deliberation  which 
characterized  all  his  movements,  seated  himself. 
He  was  in  no  way  disquieted  to  find  her  dark,  tired 
eyes  still  studying  him. 

"  How  old  are  you,  Mr.  Hurd?  "  she  asked. 

"I  am  sixty-three,  madam,"  he  answered. 

Her  eyebrows  were  gently  raised.  To  her  it 
seemed  incredible.  She  thought  of  the  men  of  sixty- 
three  or  thereabouts  whom  she  knew,  and  her  lips 


4  THE  MISSIONER 

parted  in  one  of  those  faint,  rare  smiles  of  genuine 
amusement,  which  smoothed  out  all  the  lines  of  her 
tired  face-  Visions  of  the  promenade  at  Marien- 
bad  and  Carlsbad,  the  Kursaal  at  Homburg,  floated 
before  her.  She  saw  them  all,  the  men  whom  she 
knew,  with  the  story  of  their  lives  written  so  plainly 
in  their  faces,  babbling  of  nerves  and  tonics  and 
cures,  the  newest  physician,  the  latest  fad.  De- 
faulters all  of  them,  unwilling  to  pay  the  great  debt 

—  seeking  always  a  way  out!     Here,  at  least,  this 
man  scored! 

"You  enjoy  good  health?"  she  remarked. 

"I  never  have  anything  the  matter  with  me,"  he 
answered  simply.  "I  suppose,"  he  added,  as 
though  by  an  afterthought,  "the  life  is  a  healthy 
one." 

"You  find  it  —  satisfying?"  she  asked. 

He  seemed  puzzled. 

"I  have  never  attempted  anything  else,"  he 
answered.  "It  seems  to  be  what  I  am  suited  for." 

She  attempted  to  abandon  the  role  of  questioner 

—  to  give  a  more  natural  turn  to  the  conversation. 
"It  is  always,"  she  remarked,  "such  a  relief  to 

get  down  into  the  country  at  the  end  of  the  season. 
I  wonder  I  don't  spend  more  time  here.  I  dare- 
say one  could  amuse  oneself?"  she  added  care- 
lessly. 

Mr.  Hurd  considered  for  a  few  moments. 

"There  are  croquet  and  archery  and  tennis  in  the 
neighbourhood,"  he  remarked.  "The  golf  course  on 
the  Park  hills  is  supposed  to  be  excellent.  A  great 
many  people  come  over  to  play. " 

She    affected    to    be    considering    the     question 


MISTRESS  AND  AGENT  5 

seriously.  An  intimate  friend  would  not  have  been 
deceived  by  her  air  of  attention.  Mr.  Hurd  knew 
nothing  of  this.  He,  on  his  part,  however,  was 
capable  of  a  little  gentle  irony. 

"  It  might  amuse  you,"  he  remarked,  "  to  make  a 
tour  of  your  estate.  There  are  some  of  the  outlying 
portions  which  I  think  that  I  should  have  the  honour 
of  showing  you  for  the  first  time. " 

"  I  might  find  that  interesting, "  she  admitted. 
"  By  the  bye,  Mr.  Hurd,  what  sort  of  a  landlord  am 
I?  Am  I  easy,  or  do  I  exact  my  last  pound  of  flesh? 
One  likes  to  know  these  things. " 

"  It  depends  upon  the  tenant, "the  agent  answered. 
"  There  is  not  one  of  your  farms  upon  which,  if  a 
man  works,  he  cannot  make  a  living.  On  the  other 
hand,  there  is  not  one  of  them  on  which  a  man  can 
make  a  living  unless  he  works.  It  is  upon  this  prin- 
ciple that  your  rents  have  been  adjusted.  The 
tenants  of  the  home  lands  have  been  most  carefully 
chosen,  and  Thorpe  itself  is  spoken  of  everywhere 
as  a  model  village." 

"  It  is  very  charming  to  look  at,"  its  mistress 
admitted.  "  The  flowers  and  thatched  roofs  are 
so  picturesque.  'Quite  a  pastoral  idyll/  my  guests 
tell  me.  The  people  one  sees  about  seem  contented 
and  respectful,  too." 

"  They  should  be,  madam,"  Mr.  Hurd  answered 
drily.  "  The  villagers  have  had  a  good  many  privi- 
leges from  your  family  for  generations." 

The  lady  inclined  her  head  thoughtfully. 

'  You  think,  then,"  she  remarked,  "  that  if  any- 
thing should  happen  in  England,  like  the  French 
Revolution,  I  should  not  find  unexpected  thoughts 


6  THE  MISSIONER 

and  discontent  smouldering  amongst  them?  You 
believe  that  they  are  really  contented?  " 

Mr.  Hurd  knew  nothing  about  revolutions,  and 
he  was  utterly  unable  to  follow  the  trend  of  her 
thoughts. 

"  If  they  were  not,  madam,"  he  declared,  "they 
would  deserve  to  be  in  the  workhouse  —  and  I  should 
feel  it  my  duty  to  assist  them  in  getting  there. " 

The  lady  of  Thorpe  laughed  softly  to  herself. 

"  You,  too,  then,  Mr.  Hurd,"  she  said,  "  you  are 
content  with  your  life?  You  don't  mind  my  being 
personal,  do  you?  It  is  such  a  change  down  here, 
such  a  different  existence  .  .  .  and  I  like  to  under- 
stand everything." 

Upon  Mr.  Hurd  the  almost  pathetic  significance 
of  those  last  words  was  wholly  wasted.  They  were 
words  of  a  language  which  he  could  not  comprehend. 
He  realized  only  their  direct  application  —  and  the 
woman  to  him  seemed  like  a  child. 

"  If  I  were  not  content,  madam,"  he  said,  "  I 
should  deserve  to  lose  my  place.  I  should  deserve 
to  lose  it,"  he  added  after  a  moment's  pause,  "  not- 
withstanding the  fact  that  I  have  done  my  duty 
faithfully  for  four  and  forty  years." 

She  smiled  upon  him  brilliantly.  They  were  so 
far  apart  that  she  feared  lest  she  might  have  offended 
him. 

"  I  have  always  felt  myself  a  very  fortunate 
woman,  Mr.  Hurd,"  she  said,  "  in  having  possessed 
your  services." 

He  rose  as  though  about  to  go.  It  was  her  whim, 
however,  to  detain  him. 

"  You  lost  your  wife  some  years  ago,  did  you  not, 


MISTRESS  AND  AGENT  7 

Mr.  Hurd?  "  she  began  tentatively.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  she  was  not  sure  of  her  ground. 

"  Seven  years  back,  madam,"  he  answered,  with 
immovable  face.  "  She  was,  unfortunately,  never 
a  strong  woman." 

"  And  your  son?  "  she  asked  more  confidently. 
"  Is  he  back  from  South  Africa?  " 

"A  year  ago,  madam,"  he  answered.  "He  is 
engaged  at  present  in  the  estate  office.  He  knows 
the  work  well " 

"  The  best  place  for  him,  of  course,"  she  inter- 
rupted. "  We  ought  to  do  all  we  can  for  our  young 
men  who  went  out  to  the  war.  I  should  like  to  see 
your  son,  Mr.  Hurd.  Will  you  tell  him  to  come  up 
some  day?  " 

"  Certainly,  madam,"  he  answered. 

"  Perhaps  he  would  like  to  shoot  with  my  guests 
on  Thursday?  "  she  suggested  graciously. 

Mr.  Hurd  did  not  seem  altogether  pleased. 

"  It  has  never  been  the  custom,  madam,"  he  re- 
marked, "for  either  my  son  or  myself  to  be  associ- 
ated with  the  Thorpe  shooting  parties." 

"  Some  customs,"  she  remarked  pleasantly,  "  are 
well  changed,  even  in  Thorpe.  We  shall  expect 
him." 

Mr.  Kurd's  mouth  reminded  her  for  a  moment  of 
a  steel  trap.  She  could  see  that  he  disapproved, 
but  she  had  no  intention  of  giving  way.  He  began 
to  tie  up  his  papers,  and  she  watched  him  with  some 
continuance  of  that  wave  of  interest  which  he  had 
somehow  contrived  to  excite  in  her.  The  signature 
of  one  of  the  letters  which  he  was  methodically  fold- 
ing, caught  her  attention. 


8  THE  MISSIONER 

"  What  a  strange  name!  "  she  remarked.  "  Vic- 
tor Macheson!  Who  is  he?" 

Mr.  Hurd  unfolded  the  letter.  The  ghost  of  a 
smile  flickered  upon  his  lips. 

"A  preacher,  apparently,"  he  answered.  "The 
letter  is  one  asking  permission  to  give  a  series  of 
what  he  terms  religious  lectures  in  Harrison's  large 
barn!" 

Her  eyebrows  were  gently  raised.  Her  tone  was 
one  of  genuine  surprise. 

"  What,  in  Thorpe?  "  she  demanded. 

"In  Thorpe!"  Mr.  Hurd  acquiesced. 

She  took  the  letter  and  read  it.  Her  perplexity 
was  in  no  manner  diminished. 

"  The  man  seems  in  earnest, "  she  remarked.  "  He 
must  either  be  a  stranger  to  this  part  of  the  country, 
or  an  extremely  impertinent  person.  I  presume, 
Mr.  Hurd,  that  nothing  has  been  going  on  in  the 
place  with  which  I  am  unacquainted?  " 

"  Certainly  not,  madam,"  he  answered. 

"  There  has  been  no  drunkenness? "  she  re- 
marked. "  The  young  people  have,  I  presume,  been 
conducting  their  love-making  discreetly?  " 

The  lines  of  Mr.  Kurd's  mouth  were  a  trifle  severe. 
One  could  imagine  that  he  found  her  modern  direct- 
ness of  speech  indelicate. 

"  There  have  been  no  scandals  of  any  sort  con- 
nected with  the  village,  madam,"  he  assured  her. 
"  To  the  best  of  my  belief,  all  of  our  people  are  in- 
dustrious, sober  and  pious.  They  attend  church 
regularly.  As  you  know,  we  have  not  a  public- 
house  or  a  dissenting  place  of  worship  in  the  vil- 
lage." 


MISTRESS  AND  AGENT  9 

"  The  man  must  be  a  fool,"  she  said  deliberately. 
"  You  did  not,  of  course,  give  him  permission  to 
hold  these  services?  " 

"  Certainly  not, "  the  agent  answered.  "  I  refused 
it  absolutely. " 

The  lady  rose,  and  Mr.  Kurd  understood  that  he 
was  dismissed. 

"  You  will  tell  your  son  about  Thursday?  "  she 
reminded  him. 

"I  will  deliver  your  message,  madam,"  he  an- 
swered. 

She  nodded  her  farewell  as  the  footman  opened 
the  door. 

"  Everything  seems  to  be  most  satisfactory,  Mr. 
Kurd,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  probably  be  here  for 
several  weeks,  so  come  up  again  if  there  is  anything 
you  want  me  to  sign." 

"I  am  much  obliged,  madam,"  the  agent  an- 
swered. 

He  left  the  place  by  a  side  entrance,  and  rode 
slowly  down  the  private  road,  fringed  by  a  magnifi- 
cent row  of  elm  trees,  to  the  village.  The  latch  of 
the  iron  gate  at  the  end  of  the  avenue  was  stiff, 
and  he  failed  to  open  it  with  his  hunting  crop  at 
the  first  attempt.  Just  as  he  was  preparing  to  try 
again,  a  tall,  boyish-looking  young  man,  dressed 
in  sombre  black,  came  swiftly  across  the  road  and 
opened  the  gate.  Mr.  Kurd  thanked  him  curtly, 
and  the  young  man  raised  his  hat. 

'*  You  are  Mr.  Kurd,  I  believe?  "  he  remarked. 
"  I  was  going  to  call  upon  you  this  afternoon." 

The  little  man  upon  the  pony  frowned.  He  had 
no  doubt  as  to  his  questioner. 


10  THE  MISSIONER 

"  My  name  is  Hurd,  sir,"  he  answered  stiffly. 
"  What  can  I  do  for  you?  " 

"  You  can  let  me  have  that  barn  for  my  services," 
the  other  answered  smiling.  "  I  wrote  you  about 
it,  you  know.  My  name  is  Macheson." 

Mr.  Kurd's  answer  was  briefly  spoken,  and  did 
not  invite  argument. 

"  I  have  mentioned  the  matter  to  Miss  Thorpe- 
Hatton,  sir.  She  agrees  with  me  that  your  proposed 
ministrations  are  altogether  unneeded  in  this  neigh- 
bourhood. " 

"  You  won't  let  me  use  the  barn,  then?  "  the 
young  man  remarked  pleasantly,  but  with  some 
air  of  disappointment. 

Mr.  Hurd  gathered  up  the  reins  in  his  hand. 

"  Certainly  not,  sir!  " 

He  would  have  moved  on,  but  his  questioner  stood 
in  the  way.  Mr.  Hurd  looked  at  him  from  under- 
neath his  shaggy  eyebrows.  The  young  man  was 
remarkably  young.  His  smooth,  beardless  face  was 
the  face  of  a  boy.  Only  the  eyes  seemed  somehow 
to  speak  of  graver  things.  They  were  very  bright 
indeed,  and  they  did  not  falter. 

"Mr.  Hurd,"  he  begged,  "do  let  me  ask  you 
one  question!  Why  do  you  refuse  me?  What 
harm  can  I  possibly  do  by  talking  to  your  vil- 
lagers?" 

Mr.  Hurd  pointed  with  his  whip  up  and  down  the 
country  lane. 

"This  is  the  village  of  Thorpe,  sir,"  he  answered. 
"There  are  no  poor,  there  is  no  public-house,  and 
there,  within  a  few  hundred  yards  of  the  farthest 
cottage, "  he  added,  pointing  to  the  end  of  the  street, 


MISTRESS  AND  AGENT  11 

"is  the  church.  You  are  not  needed  here.  That 
is  the  plain  truth." 

The  young  man  looked  up  and  down,  at  the  flower- 
embosomed  cottages,  with  their  thatched  roofs  and 
trim  appearance,  at  the  neatly  cut  hedges,  the  well- 
kept  road,  the  many  signs  of  prosperity.  He 
looked  at  the  little  grey  church  standing  in  its  ancient 
walled  churchyard,  where  the  road  divided,  a  very 
delightful  addition  to  the  picturesque  beauty  of 
the  place.  He  looked  at  all  these  things  and  he 
sighed. 

"Mr.  Kurd,"  he  said,  "you  are  a  man  of  experi- 
ence. You  know  very  well  that  material  and 
spiritual  welfare  are  sometimes  things  very  far 
apart." 

Mr.  Hurd  frowned  and  turned  his  pony's  head 
towards  home. 

"I  know  nothing  of  the  sort,  sir,"  he  snapped. 
"What  I  do  know  is  that  we  don't  want  any  Sal- 
vation Army  tricks  here.  You  should  stay  in  the 
cities.  They  like  that  sort  of  thing  there. " 

"I  must  come  where  I  am  sent,  Mr.  Hurd," 
the  young  man  answered.  "I  cannot  do  your 
people  any  harm.  I  only  want  to  deliver  my  mes- 
sage —  and  go." 

Mr.  Hurd  wheeled  his  pony  round. 

"I  submitted  your  letter  to  Miss  Thorpe-Hatton, J> 
he  said.  "She  agrees  with  me  that  your  minis- 
trations are  wholly  unnecessary  here.  I  wish  you 
good  evening!  " 

The  young  man  caught  for  a  moment  at  the  pony's 
rein. 

"One  moment,  sir,"  he  begged.     "You  do  not 


12  THE  MISSIONER 

object  to  my  appealing  to  Miss  Thorpe-Hatton  her- 
self? " 

A  grim,  mirthless  smile  parted  the  agent's  lips. 

"By  no  means! "  he  answered,  as  he  cantered  off. 

Victor  Macheson  stood  for  a  moment  watching 
the  retreating  figure.  Then  he  looked  across  the 
park  to  where,  through  the  great  elm  avenues,  he 
could  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  house.  A  humorous 
smile  suddenly  brightened  his  face. 

"It's  got  to  be  done!  "  he  said  to  himself.  "Here 
goes ! " 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  HUNTER  AND  HIS  QUARRY 

'TpHE  mistress  of  Thorpe  stooped  to  pat  a  black 
-*-  Pomeranian  which  had  rushed  out  to  meet 
her.  It  was  when  she  indulged  in  some  such  move- 
ment that  one  realized  more  thoroughly  the  wonder- 
ful grace  of  her  slim,  supple  figure.  She  who  hated 
all  manner  of  exercise  had  the  ease  of  carriage  and 
flexibility  of  one  whose  life  had  been  spent  in 
athletic  pursuits. 

"How  are  you  all?"  she  remarked  languidly. 
"Shocking  hostess,  am  I  not?  " 

A  fair-haired  little  woman  turned  away  from  the 
tea-table.  She  held  a  chocolate  Eclair  in  one  hand> 
and  a  cup  of  Russian  tea  in  the  other.  Her  eyes 
were  very  dark,  and  her  hair  very  yellow  —  and 
both  were  perfectly  and  unexpectedly  natural.  Her 
real  name  was  Lady  Margaret  Penshore,  but  she 
was  known  to  her  intimates,  and  to  the  mysterious 
individuals  who  write  under  a  nom-de-guerre  in  the 
society  papers,  as  "  Lady  Peggy. " 

"A  little  casual  perhaps,  my  dear  Wilhelmina," 
she  remarked.  "Comes  from  your  association  with 
Royalty,  I  suppose.  Try  one  of  your  own  caviare 
sandwiches,  if  you  want  anything  to  eat.  They're 
ripping." 


14  THE  MISSIONER 

Wilhelmina  —  she  was  one  of  the  few  women  of 
her  set  with  whose  Christian  name  no  one  had  ever 
attempted  to  take  any  liberties  —  approached  the 
tea-table  and  studied  its  burden.  There  were  a 
dozen  different  sorts  of  sandwiches  arranged  in  the 
most  tempting  form,  hot-water  dishes  with  deli- 
cately browned  tea-cakes  simmering  gently,  thick 
cream  in  silver  jugs,  tea  and  coffee,  and  in  the 
background  old  China  dishes  piled  with  freshly 
gathered  strawberries  and  peaches  and  grapes, 
on  which  the  bloom  still  rested.  On  a  smaller 
table  were  flasks  of  liqueurs  and  a  spirit  decan- 
ter. 

"  Any  how,"  she  remarked,  pouring  herself  out 
some  tea,  "I  do  feed  you  people  well.  And  as  to 
being  casual,  I  warned  you  that  I  never  put  in  an 
appearance  before  five." 

A  man  in  the  background,  long  and  lantern-faced, 
a  man  whose  age  it  would  have  been  as  impossible 
to  guess  as  his  character,  opened  and  closed  his 
watch  with  a  clink. 

" Twenty  minutes  past,"  he  remarked.  "To  be 
exact,  twenty-two  minutes  past." 

His  hostess  turned  and  regarded  him  contempla- 
tively. 

"  How  painfully  precise !  "  she  remarked.  "  Some- 
how, it  doesn't  sound  convincing,  though.  Your 
watch  is  probably  like  your  morals." 

"What  a  flattering  simile!  "  he  murmured. 

"Flattering?" 

"It  presupposes,  at  any  rate,  their  existence," 
he  explained.  "It  is  years  since  I  was  reminded 
of  them." 


THE  HUNTER  AND  HIS  QUARRY    15 

Wilhelmina  seated  herself  before  an  open  card- 
table. 

"No  doubt,"  she  answered.  "You  see  I  knew 
you  when  you  were  a  boy.  Seriously/'  she  con- 
tinued, "I  have  been  engaged  with  my  agent  for  the 
last  half-hour  —  a  most  interesting  person,  I  can 
assure  you.  There  was  an  agreement  with  one 
Philip  Crooks  concerning  a  farm,  which  he  felt  com- 
pelled to  read  to  me  —  every  word  of  it !  Come 
along  and  cut,  all  of  you!  " 

The  fourth  person,  slim,  fair-haired,  the  typical 
army  officer  and  country  house  habitue",  came  over 
to  the  table,  followed  by  the  lantern-jawed  man. 
Lady  Peggy  also  turned  up  a  card. 

"You  and  I,  Gilbert,"  Wilhelmina  remarked  to 
the  elder  man.  "Here's  luck  to  us!  What  on 
earth  is  that  you  are  drinking?  " 

" Absinthe,"  he  answered  calmly.  "I  have  been 
trying  to  persuade  Austin  to  join  me,  but  it  seems 
they  don't  drink  absinthe  in  the  Army." 

"I  should  think  not,  indeed,"  his  hostess  an- 
swered. "And  you  my  partner,  too!  Put  the  stuff 
away." 

Gilbert  Deyes  raised  his  glass  and  looked  thought- 
fully into  its  opalescent  depths. 

"Ah!  my  dear  lady,"  he  said,  "you  make  a  great 
mistake  when  you  number  absinthe  amongst  the 
ordinary  intoxicating  beverages.  I  tell  you  that 
the  man  who  invented  it  was  an  epicure  in  sensa- 
tions and  —  er  —  gastronomy.  If  only  De  Quincey 
had  realized  the  possibility  of  absinthe,  he  would 
have  given  us  jewelled  prose  indeed." 

Wilhelmina  yawned. 


16  THE  MISSIONER 

"Bother  De  Quincey!"  she  declared.  "It's  your 
bridge  I'm  thinking  of." 

"Dear  lady,  you  need  have  no  anxiety,"  Deyes 
answered  reassuringly.  "One  does  not  trifle  with 
one's  livelihood.  You  will  find  me  capable  of 
the  most  daring  finesses,  the  most  wonderful  coups. 
I  shall  not  revoke,  I  shall  not  lead  out  of  the  wrong 
hand.  My  declarations  will  be  touched  with 
genius.  The  rubber,  in  fact,  is  already  won.  Vive 
1' absinthe!" 

"The  rubber  will  never  be  begun  if  you  go  on 
talking  nonsense  much  longer,"  Lady  Peggy  de- 
clared, tapping  the  table  impatiently.  "I  believe 
I  hear  the  motors  outside.  We  shall  have  the  whole 
crowd  here  directly." 

"They  won't  find  their  way  here,"  their  hostess 
assured  them  calmly.  "My  deal,  I  believe." 

They  played  the  hand  in  silence.  At  its  conclusion, 
Wilhelmina  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  listened. 

"You  were  right,  Peggy,"  she  said,  "they  are  all 
in  the  hall.  I  can  hear  your  brother's  voice." 

Lady  Peggy  nodded. 

"Sounds  healthy,  doesn't  it?" 

Gilbert  Deyes  leaned  across  to  the  side  table  and 
helped  himself  to  a  cigarette. 

"Healthy!  I  call  it  boisterous,"  he  declared. 
"  Where  have  they  all  been?  " 

"Motoring  somewhere,"  Wilhelmina  answered. 
"They  none  of  them  have  any  idea  how  to  pass  the 
time  away  until  the  first  run." 

"Sport,  my  dear  hostess,"  Deyes  remarked,  "is 
the  one  thing  which  makes  life  in  a  country  house 
almost  unendurable." 


THE  HUNTER  AND  HIS  QUARRY   17 

Wilhelmina  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

''That's  all  very  well,  Gilbert,"  she  said,  "but 
what  should  we  do  if  we  couldn't  get  rid  of 
some  of  these  lunatics  for  at  least  part  of  the 
day?  " 

"Reasonable,  I  admit/'  Deyes  answered,  "but 
think  what  an  intolerable  nuisance  they  make  of 
themselves  for  the  other  part.  I  double  No  Trumps, 
Lady  Peggy." 

Lady  Peggy  laid  down  her  cards. 

"For  goodness'  sake,  no  more  digressions,"  she 
implored.  "Remember,  please,  that  I  play  this 
game  for  the  peace  of  mind  of  my  tradespeople!  I 
redouble!  " 

The  hand  was  played  almost  in  silence.  Lady 
Peggy  lost  the  odd  trick  and  began  to  add  up  the 
score  with  a  gentle  sigh. 

"After  all,"  her  partner  remarked,  returning  to 
the  subject  which  they  had  been  discussing,  "I 
don't  think  that  we  could  get  on  very  well  in  this 
country  without  sport,  of  some  sort." 

"Of  course  not,"  Deyes  answered.  "We  are 
all  sportsmen,  every  one  of  us.  We  were  born  so. 
Only,  while  some  of  us  are  content  to  wreak  our  in- 
stinct for  destruction  upon  birds  and  animals,  others 
choose  the  nobler  game  —  our  fellow-creatures !  To 
hunt  or  trap  a  human  being  is  finer  sport  than  to 
shoot  a  rocketing  pheasant,  or  to  come  in  from 
hunting  with  mud  all  over  our  clothes,  smelling  of 
ploughed  fields,  steaming  in  front  of  the  fire,  telling 
lies  about  our  exploits  —  all  undertaken  in  pursuit 
of  a  miserable  little  animal,  which  as  often  as  not 
outwits  us,  and  which,  in  an  ordinary  way,  we 


18  THE  MISSIONER 

wouldn't  touch  with  gloves  on!  What  do  you  say, 
Lady  Peggy?  " 

"You're  getting  beyond  me,"  she  declared.  "It 
sounds  a  little  savage." 

Deyes  dealt  the  cards  slowly,  talking  all  the 
while. 

"Sport  is  savage,"  he  declared.  "No  one  can 
deny  it.  Whether  the  quarry  be  human  or  animal, 
the  end  is  death.  But  of  all  its  varieties,  give 
me  the  hunting  of  man  by  man,  the  brain  of  the 
hunter  coping  with  the  wiles  of  the  hunted,  both 
human,  both  of  the  same  order.  The  game's  even 
then,  for  at  any  moment  they  may  change  places 
—  the  hunter  and  his  quarry.  It's  finer  work  than 
slaughtering  birds  at  the  coverside.  It  gives  your 
sex  a  chance,  Lady  Peggy." 

"It  sounds  exciting,"  she  admitted. 

"It  is,"  he  answered. 

His  hostess  looked  up  at  him  languidly. 

"  You  speak  like  one  who  knows !  " 

"Why  not?  "  he  murmured.  "I  have  been  both 
quarry  and  hunter.  Most  of  us  have  more  or  less ! 
I  declare  Hearts!" 

Again  there  was  an  interval  of  silence,  broken 
only  by  the  stock  phrases  of  the  game,  and  the  soft 
patter  of  the  cards  upon  the  table.  Once  more  the 
hand  was  played  out  and  the  cards  gathered  up. 
Captain  Austin  delivered  his  quota  to  the  general 
discussion. 

"After  all,"  he  said,  "if  it  wasn't  for  sport,  our 
country  houses  would  be  useless." 

"Not  at  all!"  Deyes  declared.  "Country  houses 
should  exist  for " 


THE  HUNTER  AND  HIS  QUARRY   19 

"For  what,  Mr.  Deyes?  Do  tell  us,"  Lady  Peggy 
implored. 

"For  bridge!"  he  declared.  "For  giving  weary 
married  people  the  opportunity  for  divorce,  and  as 
an  asylum  from  one's  creditors." 

Wilhelmina  shook  her  head  as  she  gathered  up 
her  cards. 

"You  are  not  at  your  best  to-day,  Gilbert,"  she 
said.  "The  allusion  to  creditors  is  prehistoric!  No 
one  has  them  nowadays.  Society  is  such  a  hop- 
scotch affair  that  our  coffers  are  never  empty." 

"What  a  Utopian  sentiment!"  Lady  Peggy 
murmured. 

"We  can't  agree,  can  we?"  Deyes  whispered 
in  her  ear. 

"You!  Why  they  say  that  you  are  worth  a 
million,"  she  protested. 

"If  I  am  I  remain  poor,  for  I  cannot  spend  it," 
he  declared. 

"Why  not?"  his  hostess  asked  him  from  across 
the  table. 

"Because,"  he  answered,  "I  am  cursed  with  a 
single  vice,  trailing  its  way  through  a  labyrinth  of 
virtues.  I  am  a  miser!  " 

Lady  Peggy  laughed  incredulously. 

"Rubbish!  "  she  exclaimed. 

"Dear  lady,  it  is  nothing  of  the  sort,"  he  an- 
swered, shaking  his  head  sadly.  "I  have  felt  it 
growing  upon  me  for  years.  Besides,  it  is  heredi- 
tary. My  mother  opened  a  post-office  savings  bank 
account  for  me.  At  an  early  age  I  engineered  a 
corner  in  marbles  and  sold  out  at  a  huge  profit.  I  am 
like  the  starving  dyspeptic  at  the  rich  man's  feast." 


20  THE  MISSIONER 

Captain  Austin  intervened. 

"I  declare  Diamonds,"  he  announced,  and  the 
hand  proceeded. 

Wilhelmina  leaned  back  in  her  chair  as  the  last 
trick  fell.  Her  eyes  were  turned  towards  the 
window.  She  could  just  see  the  avenue  of  elms 
down  which  her  agent  had  ridden  a  short  while 
since.  Deyes,  through  half  closed  eyes,  watched 
her  with  some  curiosity. 

"If  one  dared  offer  a  trifling  coin  of  the  realm- 
he  murmured. 

"I  was  thinking  of  your  theory,"  she  interrupted. 
"According  to  you,  I  suppose  the  whole  world  is 
made  up  of  hunters  and  their  quarry.  Can  you 
tell,  I  wonder,  by  looking  at  people,  to  which  order 
they  belong?  " 

"It  is  easy,"  he  answered.  "Yet  you  must  re- 
member we  are  continually  changing  places.  The 
man  who  cracks  the  whip  to-day  is  the  hunted  beast 
to-morrow.  The  woman  who  mocks  at  her  lover 
this  afternoon  is  often  the  slave-bearer  when  dusk 
falls.  Swift  changes  like  this  are  like  rain  upon  the 
earth.  They  keep  us,  at  any  rate,  out  of  the  asy- 
lums." 

Wilhelmina  was  still  looking  out  of  the  window. 
Up  the  great  avenue,  in  and  out  amongst  the  tree 
trunks,  but  moving  always  with  swift  buoyant  foot- 
steps towards  the  house,  came  a  slim,  dark  figure, 
soberly  dressed  in  ill-fitting  clothes.  He  walked 
with  the  swing  of  early  manhood,  his  head  was 
thrown  back,  and  he  carried  his  hat  in  his  hand.  She 
leaned  forward  to  watch  him  more  closely  —  he 
seemed  to  have  associated  himself  in  some  mysteri- 


THE  HUNTER  AND  HIS  QUARRY   21 

ous  manner  with  the  mocking  words  of  Gilbert 
Deyes.  Half  maliciously,  she  drew  his  attention 
to  the  swiftly  approaching  figure. 

"Come,  my  friend  of  theories,"  she  said  mock- 
ingly. "There  is  a  stranger  there,  the  young  man 
who  walks  so  swiftly.  To  which  of  your  two  orders 
does  he  belong?  " 

Deyes  looked  out  of  the  window  —  a  brief,  care- 
less glance. 

"To  neither,"  he  answered.  "His  time  has  not 
come  yet.  But  he  has  the  makings  of  both." 


CHAPTER  III 

FIRST  BLOOD 

A  FOOTMAN  entered  the  room  a  few  minutes 
later,  and  obedient,  without  a  doubt,  to  some 
previously  given  command,  waited  behind  his  mis- 
tress' chair  until  a  hand  had  been  played.  When  it 
was  over,  she  spoke  to  him  without  turning  her  head. 

"What  is  it,  Perkins?  "  she  asked. 

He  bent  forward  respectfully. 

"There  is  a  young  gentleman  here,  madam,  who 
wishes  to  see  you  most  particularly.  He  has  no  card, 
but  he  said  that  his  name  would  not  be  known  to 
you." 

''Tell  him  that  I  am  engaged,"  Wilhelmina  said. 
"He  must  give  you  his  name,  and  tell  you  what 
business  he  has  come  upon." 

"Very  good,  madam!"  the  man  answered,  and 
withdrew. 

He  was  back  again  before  the  next  hand  had 
been  played.  Once  more  he  stood  waiting  in  re- 
spectful silence. 

"Well?"  his  mistress  asked. 

"His  name,  madam,  is  Mr.  Victor  Macheson.  He 
said  that  he  would  wait  as  long  as  you  liked,  but 
he  preferred  telling  you  his  business  himself." 


FIRST  BLOOD  23 

"I  fancy  that  I  know  it,"  Wilhelmina  answered. 
"You  can  show  him  in  here." 

"Is  it  the  young  man,  I  wonder,"  Lady  Peggy 
remarked,  "who  came  up  the  avenue  as  though  he 
were  walking  on  air?  " 

"Doubtless,"  Wilhelmina  answered.  "He  is 
some  sort  of  a  missionary.  I  had  him  shown  in  here 
because  I  thought  his  coming  at  all  an  impertinence, 
and  I  want  to  make  him  understand  it.  You  will 
probably  find  him  amusing,  Mr.  Deyes." 

Gilbert  Deyes  shook  his  head  quietly. 

"There  was  a  time,"  he  murmured,  "when  the 
very  word  missionary  was  a  finger-post  to  the  ridic- 
ulous. The  comic  papers  rob  us,  however,  of  our 
elementary  sources  of  humour." 

They  all  looked  curiously  towards  the  door  as  he 
entered,  all  except  Wilhelmina,  who  was  the  last  to 
turn  her  head,  and  found  him  hesitating  in  some 
embarrassment  as  to  whom  to  address.  He  was 
somewhat  above  medium  height,  fair,  with  a  mass 
of  wind-tossed  hair,  and  had  the  smooth  face  of  a 
boy.  His  eyes  were  his  most  noticeable  feature. 
They  were  very  bright  and  very  restless.  Lady 
Peggy  called  them  afterwards  uncomfortable  eyes, 
and  the  others,  without  any  explanation,  understood 
what  she  meant. 

"I  am  Miss  Thorpe-Hatton,"  Wilhelmina  said 
calmly.  "I  am  told  that  you  wished  to  see  me." 

She  turned  only  her  head  towards  him.  Her 
words  were  cold  and  unwelcoming.  She  saw  that 
he  was  nervous  and  she  had  no  pity.  It  was  un- 
worthy of  her.  She  knew  that.  Her  eyes  ques- 
tioned him  calmly.  Sitting  there  in  her  light 


24  THE  MISSIONER 

muslin  dress,  with  her  deep-brown  hair  arranged 
in  the  Madonna-like  fashion,  which  chanced  to  be 
the  caprice  of  the  moment,  she  herself  —  one  of 
London's  most  beautiful  women  —  seemed  little 
more  than  a  girl. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  began  hurriedly.  "I 
understood  —  I  expected  — 

"Well?" 

The  monosyllable  was  like  a  drop  of  ice.  A  faint 
spot  of  colour  burned  in  his  cheeks.  He  understood 
now  that  for  some  reason  this  woman  was  inimical 
to  him.  The  knowledge  seemed  to  have  a  bracing 
effect.  His  eyes  flashed  with  a  sudden  fire  which 
gave  force  to  his  face. 

"I  expected,"  he  continued  with  more  assurance, 
"to  have  found  Miss  Thorpe-Hatton  an  older  lady." 

She  said  nothing.  Only  her  eyebrows  were  very 
slightly  raised.  She  seemed  to  be  asking  him 
silently  what  possible  concern  the  age  of  the  lady 
of  Thorpe-Hatton  could  be  to  him.  He  was  to 
understand  that  his  remark  was  almost  an  imperti- 
nence. 

"I  wished,"  he  said,  "to  hold  a  service  in  Thorpe 
on  Sunday  afternoon,  and  also  one  during  the  week, 
and  I  wrote  to  your  agent  asking  for  the  loan  of  a 
barn,  which  is  generally,  I  believe,  used  for  any 
gathering  of  the  villagers.  Mr.  Hurd  found  him- 
self unable  to  grant  my  request.  I  have  ventured 
to  appeal  to  you." 

"Mr.  Hurd,"  she  said  calmly,  "decided,  in  my 
opinion,  quite  rightly.  I  do  not  see  what  possible 
need  my  villagers  can  have  of  further  religious 
services  than  the  Church  affords  them." 


FIRST  BLOOD  25 

"Madam,"  he  answered,  "I  have  not  a  word 
to  say  against  your  parish  church,  or  against  your 
excellent  vicar.  Yet  I  believe,  and  the  body  to 
which  I  am  attached  believes,  that  change  is  stimu- 
lating. We  believe  that  the  great  truths  of  life 
cannot  be  presented  to  our  fellow-creatures  too 
often,  or  in  too  many  different  ways." 

"And  what,"  she  asked,  with  a  faint  curl  of  her 
beautiful  lips,  "do  you  consider  the  great  truths 
of  life?  " 

"Madam,"  he  answered,  with  slightly  reddening 
cheeks,  "they  vary  for  every  one  of  us,  according 
to  our  capacity  and  our  circumstances.  What  they 
may  mean,"  he  added,  after  a  moment's  hesitation, 
"to  people  of  your  social  order,  I  do  not  know.  It 
has  not  come  within  the  orbit  of  my  experience.  It 
was  your  villagers  to  whom  I  was  proposing  to  talk." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Gilbert  Deyes 
and  Lady  Peggy  exchanged  swift  glances  of  amused 
understanding.  Wilhelmina  bit  her  lip,  but  she 
betrayed  no  other  sign  of  annoyance. 

"To  what  religious  body  do  you  belong?"  she 
asked. 

"My  friends,"  he  answered,  "and  I,  are  attached 
to  none  of  the  recognized  denominations.  Our  only 
object  is  to  try  to  keep  alight  in  our  fellow-creatures 
the  flame  of  spirituality.  We  want  to  help  them  — 
not  to  forget." 

"There  is  no  name  by  which  you  call  yourselves?" 
she  asked. 

"None,"  he  answered. 

"And  your  headquarters  are  where?  "  she  asked. 

"In  Gloucestershire,"  he  answered  —  "so  far  as 
we  can  be  said  to  have  any  headquarters  at  all." 


26  THE  MISSIONER 

"You  have  no  churches  then?  "  she  asked. 

"Any  building,"  he  answered,  "where  the  people 
are  to  whom  we  desire  to  speak,  is  our  church.  We 
look  upon  ourselves  as  missioners  only." 

"I  am  afraid,"  Wilhelmina  said  quietly,  "that 
I  am  only  wasting  your  time  in  asking  these  ques- 
tions. Still,  I  should  like  to  know  what  induced  you 
to  choose  my  village  as  an  appropriate  sphere  for 
your  labours." 

"We  each  took  a  county,"  he  answered.  "Lei- 
cestershire fell  to  my  lot.  I  selected  Thorpe  to 
begin  with,  because  I  have  heard  it  spoken  of  as 
a  model  village." 

Wilhelmina's  forehead  was  gently  wrinkled. 

''I  am  afraid,"  she  said,  "that  I  am  a  somewhat 
dense  person.  Your  reason  seems  to  me  scarcely  an 
adequate  one." 

"Our  belief  is,"  he  declared,  "that  where  material 
prosperity  is  assured,  especially  amongst  this  class 
of  people,  the  instincts  towards  spirituality  are 
weakened." 

"My  people  all  attend  church;  we  have  no  public- 
house;  there  are  never  any  scandals,"  she  said. 

"All  these  things,"  he  admitted,  "are  excellent. 
But  they  do  not  help  you  to  see  into  the  lives  of 
these  people.  Church-going  may  become  a  habit,  a 
respectable  and  praiseworthy  thing  —  and  a  thing 
expected  of  them.  Morality,  too,  may  become  a 
custom  —  until  temptation  comes.  One  must  ask 
oneself  what  is  the  force  which  prompts  these  people 
to  direct  their  lives  in  so  praiseworthy  a  manner." 

"You  forget,"  she  remarked,  "that  these  are 
simple  folk.  Their  religion  with  them  is  simply  a 


FIRST  BLOOD  21 

matter  of  right  or  wrong.     They  need  no  further 
instruction  in  this." 

"Madam,"  he  said,  "so  long  as  they  are  living 
here,  that  may  be  so.  Frankly,  I  do  not  consider 
it  sufficient  that  their  lives  are  seemly,  so  long  as 
they  live  in  the  shadow  of  your  patronage.  What 
happens  to  those  who  pass  outside  its  influence  is 
another  matter." 

"What  do  you  know  about  that?"  she  asked 
coldly. 

"What  I  do  know  about  it,"  he  answered,  "de- 
cided me  to  come  to  Thorpe." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Any  of  the  other 
three,  Gilbert  Deyes  especially,  perhaps,  would 
have  found  it  hard  to  explain,  even  to  realize  the 
interest  with  which  they  listened  to  the  conversation 
between  these  two  —  the  somewhat  unkempt,  ill- 
attired  boy,  with  the  nervous,  forceful  manner  and 
burning  eyes,  and  the  woman,  so  sure  of  herself,  so 
coldly  and  yet  brutally  ungracious.  It  was  not  so 
much  the  words  themselves  that  passed  between 
them  that  attracted  as  the  undernote  of  hostility,, 
more  felt  than  apparent  —  the  beginning  of  a  duel,, 
to  all  appearance  so  ludicrously  onesided,  yet. 
destined  to  endure.  Deyes  turned  in  his  chair 
uneasily.  He  was  watching  this  intruder  —  a  being; 
outwardly  so  far  removed  from  their  world.  The 
niceties  of  a  correct  toilet  had  certainly  never 
troubled  him,  his  clothes  were  rough  in  material 
and  cut,  he  wore  a  flannel  shirt,  and  a  collar  so  low 
that  his  neck  seemed  ill-shaped.  He  had  no  special 
gifts  of  features  or  figure,  his  manner  was  nervous, 
his  speech  none  too  ready.  Deyes  found  himself 


28  THE  MISSIONER 

engaged  in  a  swift  analysis  of  the  subtleties  of  per- 
sonality. What  did  this  young  man  possess  that 
he  should  convey  so  strong  a  sense  of  power?  There 
was  something  about  him  which  told.  They  were 
all  conscious  of  it,  and,  more  than  any  of  them,  the 
woman  who  was  regarding  him  with  such  studied 
ill-favour.  To  the  others,  her  still  beautiful  face  be- 
trayed only  some  languid  irritation.  Deyes  fancied 
that  he  saw  more  there  —  that  underneath  the  mask 
which  she  knew  so  well  how  to  wear  there  were 
traces  of  some  deeper  disturbance. 

"  Do  you  mind  explaining  yourself?  "  she  asked. 
"That  sounds  rather  an  extraordinary  statement  of 
yours." 

"A  few  months  ago,"  he  said,  "I  attended  regu- 
larly one  of  the  police  courts  in  London.  Day  by 
day  I  came  into  contact  with  the  lost  souls  who 
have  drifted  on  to  the  great  rubbish-heap.  There 
was  a  girl,  Martha  Gullimore  her  name  was,  whose 
record  for  her  age  was  as  black  as  sin  could  make  it. 
Her  father,  I  believe,  is  the  blacksmith  in  your 
model  village!  I  spoke  to  him  of  his  daughter  yes- 
terday, and  he  cursed  me!" 

"You   mean   Samuel   Gullimore  —  my   farrier?" 
she  asked. 
,     "That  is  the  man,"  he  answered. 

"Have  you  any  other — instances?"  she  asked. 

"More  than  one,  I  am  sorry  to  say,"  he  replied. 
"There  were  two  young  men  who  left  here  only  a 
year  ago  —  one  is  the  son  of  your  gardener,  the 
other  was  brought  up  by  his  uncle  at  your  lodge 
gates.  I  was  instrumental  in  saving  them  from 
prison  a  few  months  ago.  One  we  have  shipped 


FIRST  BLOOD  29 

to  Canada  —  the  other,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  has 
relapsed.  We  did  what  we  could,  but  beyond  a 
certain  point  we  cannot  go." 

She  leaned  her  head  for  a  moment  upon  the  slim, 
white  fingers  of  her  right  hand,  innocent  of  rings  save 
for  one  great  emerald,  whose  gleam  of  colour  was  al- 
most barbaric  in  its  momentary  splendour.  Her  face 
had  hardened  a  little,  her  tone  was  almost  an  offence. 

"You  would  have  me  believe,  then,"  she  said, 
"that  my  peaceful  village  is  a  veritable  den  of 
iniquity?  " 

"Not  I,"  he  answered  brusquely.  "Only  I  would 
have  you  realize  that  roses  and  honeysuckle  and 
regular  wages,  the  appurtenances  of  material  pros- 
perity, are  after  all  things  of  little  consequence.  They 
hear  the  song  of  the  world,  these  people,  in  their 
leisure  moments;  their  young  men  and  girls  are  no 
stronger  than  their  fellows  when  temptation  comes." 

Deyes  leaned  suddenly  forward  in  his  chair.  He 
felt  that  his  intervention  dissipated  a  dramatic 
interest,  of  which  he  was  keenly  conscious,  but  he 
could  not  keep  silence  any  longer. 

"To  follow  out  your  argument,  sir,  to  its  logical 
conclusion,"  he  said,  "why  not  aim  higher  still? 
It  is  your  contention,  is  it  not,  that  the  seeds  of 
evil  things  are  sown  in  indifference,  that  prosperity 
might  even  tend  towards  their  propagation.  Why 
not  direct  your  energies,  then,  towards  the  men 
and  women  of  Society?  There  is  plenty  of  scope 
here  for  your  labours." 

The  young  man  turned  towards  him.  The  lines 
of  his  mouth  had  relaxed  into  a  smile  of  tolerant, 
indifference. 


30  THE  MISSIONER 

"I  have  no  sympathy,  sir,"  he  answered,  "with 
the  class  you  name.  On  a  sinking  ship,  the  cry  is 
always,  'Save  the  women  and  children.'  It  is  the 
less  fortunate  in  the  world's  possessions  who  repre- 
sent the  women  and  children  of  shipwrecked  mo- 
rality. It  is  for  their  betterment  that  we  work." 

Deyes  sighed  gently. 

•"It  is  a  pity,"  he  declared.  "I  am  convinced 
that  there  is  a  magnificent  opening  for  mission  work 
amongst  the  idle  classes." 

"No  doubt,"  the  young  man  agreed  quickly.  "The 
question  is  whether  the  game  is  worth  the  candle." 

Deyes  made  no  repty.  Lady  Peggy  was  laughing 
softly  to  herself. 

"I  have  heard  all  that  you  have  to  say,  Mr. 
Macheson,"  the  mistress  of  Thorpe  said  calmly, 
"and  I  can  only  repeat  that  I  think  your  presence 
here  as  a  missioner  most  unnecessary.  I  consider 
It,  in  fact,  an 

She  hesitated.  With  a  sudden  flash  of  humour 
in  his  deep-set  eyes,  he  supplied  the  word. 

"An  impertinence,  perhaps!" 

"The  word  is  not  mine,"  she  answered,  "but  I 
accept  it  willingly.  I  cannot  interfere  with  Mr. 
Kurd's  decision  as  to  the  barn." 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  must  hold  my 
meetings  out  of  doors!  That  is  all!  " 

There  was  a  dangerous  glitter  in  her  beautiful  eyes. 

"There  is  no  common  land  in  the  neighbourhood," 
she  said,  "and  you  will  of  course  understand  that 
I  will  consider  you  a  trespasser  at  any  time  you  are 
found  upon  my  property." 

He  bowed  slightly. 


FIRST  BLOOD  31 

"I  am  here  to  speak  to  your  people,"  he  said, 
"and  I  will  do  so,  if  I  have  to  stop  in  these  lanes 
and  talk  to  them  one  by  one.  You  will  pardon  my 
reminding  you,  madam,  that  the  days  of  feudalism 
are  over." 

Wilhelmina  carefully  shuffled  the  pack  of  cards 
which  she  had  just  taken  up. 

"  We  will  finish  our  rubber,  Peggy,"  she  said.  "Mr. 
Deyes,  perhaps  I  may  trouble  you  to  ring  the  bell!  " 

The  young  man  was  across  the  room  before  Deyes 
could  move. 

"You  will  allow  me,"  he  said,  with  a  delightfully 
humourous  smile,  "to  facilitate  my  own  dismissal* 
I  shall  doubtless  meet  your  man  in  the  hall.  May  I 
be  allowed  to  wish  you  all  good  afternoon!  " 

They  all  returned  his  farewell  save  Wilhelmina, 
who  had  begun  to  deal.  She  seemed  determined 
to  remember  his  existence  no  more.  Yet  on  the 
threshold,  with  the  handle  of  the  door  between  his 
fingers,  he  turned  back.  He  said  nothing,  but  his 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  her.  Deyes  leaned  forward 
in  his  chair,  immensely  curious.  Softly  the  cards 
fell  into  their  places,  there  was  no  sign  in  her  face 
of  any  consciousness  of  his  presence.  Deyes  alone 
knew  that  she  was  fighting.  He  heard  her  breath 
come  quicker,  saw  the  fingers  which  gathered  up 
her  cards  shake.  Slowly,  but  with  obvious  un- 
willingness, she  turned  her  head.  She  looked 
straight  into  the  eyes  of  the  man  who  still  lingered. 

"Good  afternoon,  Miss  Thorpe-Hatton,"  he  said 
pleasantly.  "I  am  sorry  to  have  troubled  you." 

Her  lips  moved,  but  she  said  nothing.  She  half 
inclined  her  head.  The  door  was  softly  closed. 


CHAPTER  IV 

BEATING  HER  WINGS 

NEVER  was  a  young  man  more  pleased  with 
himself  than  Stephen  Kurd,  on  the  night  he 
dined  at  Thorpe-Hatton.  He  had  shot  well  all  day, 
and  been  accepted  with  the  utmost  cordiality  by  the 
rest  of  the  party.  At  dinner  time,  his  hostess  had 
placed  him  on  her  left  hand,  and  though  it  was  true 
she  had  not  much  to  say  to  him,  it  was  equally 
obvious  that  her  duties  were  sufficient  to  account 
for  her  divided  attention.  He  was  quite  willing 
to  be  ignored  by  the  lady  on  his  other  side  —  a 
little  elderly,  and  noted  throughout  the  country 
for  her  husband-hunting  proclivities.  He  recog- 
nized the  fact  that,  apart  from  the  personal  side  of 
the  question,  he  could  scarcely  hope  to  be  of  any 
interest  to  her.  The  novelty  of  the  situation, 
Wilhelmina's  occasional  remarks,  and  a  dinner 
such  as  he  had  never  tasted  before  were  sufficient 
to  keep  him  interested.  For  the  rest  he  was  con- 
tent to  twirl  his  moustache,  of  which  he  was  in- 
ordinately proud,  and  lean  back  in  his  chair  with 
the  comfortable  reflection  that  he  was  the  first  of 
his  family  to  be  offered  the  complete  hospitality  of 
Thorpe-Hatton. 


BEATING  HER  WINGS  33 

Towards  the  close  of  dinner,  his  hostess  leaned 
towards  him. 

"Have  you  seen  or  heard  anything  of  a  young 
man  named  Macheson  in  the  village?  "  she  asked. 

"I  have  seen  him  once  or  twice,"  he  answered. 
"  Here  on  a  missionary  expedition  or  something  of 
the  sort,  I  believe." 

"Has  he  made  any  attempt  to  hold  a  meeting?  " 
she  asked. 

"Not  that  I  have  heard  of,"  he  replied.  "He 
has  been  talking  to  some  of  the  people,  though.  I 
saw  him  with  old  Gullimore  yesterday." 

"That  reminds  me,"  she  remarked,  "is  it  true 
that  Gullimore  has  had  trouble  with  his  daugh- 
ter? " 

"I  believe  so,"  young  Kurd  admitted,  looking 
downwards  at  his  plate. 

"The  man  was  to  blame  for  letting  her  leave  the 
place,"  Wilhelmina  declared,  in  cold,  measured  tones. 
"A  pretty  girl,  I  remember,  but  very  vain,  and  a 
fool,  of  course.  But  about  this  young  fellow  Mache- 
son. Do  you  know  who  he  is,  and  where  he  came 
from?  " 

Stephen  Hurd  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't,"  he  said  doubtfully.  "He 
belongs  to  some  sort  of  brotherhood,  I  believe.  I 
can't  exactly  make  out  what  he's  at.  Seems  a 
queer  sort  of  place  for  him  to  come  missioning, 
this!" 

"So  I  told  him,"  she  said.  "By  the  bye,  do  you 
know  where  he  is  staying?  " 

"At   Onetree   farm,"   the   young   man  answered. 

Wilhelmina  frowned. 


34  THE  MISSIONER 

"Will  you  execute  a  commission  for  me  to- 
morrow? "  she  asked. 

"  With  pleasure!  "  he  answered  eagerly. 

"You  will  go  to  the  woman  at  Onetree  farm,  I 
forget  her  name,  and  say  that  I  desire  to  take  her 
rooms  myself  from  to-morrow,  or  as  soon  as  possible. 
I  will  pay  her  for  them,  but  I  do  not  wish  that 
young  man  to  be  taken  in  by  any  of  my  tenants. 
You  will  perhaps  make  that  known." 

"I  will  do  so,"  he  declared.  "I  hope  he  will 
"have  the  good  sense  to  leave  the  neighbourhood." 

"I  trust  so,"  Wilhelmina  replied. 

She  turned  away  to  speak  once  more  to  the  man 
on  her  other  side,  and  did  not  address  Stephen 
Hurd  again.  He  watched  her  covertly,  with  tingling 
pulses,  as  she  devoted  herself  to  her  neighbour  - 
the  Lord-Lieutenant  of  the  county.  He  considered 
himself  a  judge  of  the  sex,  but  he  had  had  few 
opportunities  even  of  admiring  such  women  as 
the  mistress  of  Thorpe.  He  watched  the  curve 
of  her  white  neck  with  its  delicate,  satin-like  skin, 
the  play  of  her  features,  the  poise  of  her  somewhat 
small,  oval  head.  He  admired  the  slightly  wearied 
air  with  which  she  performed  her  duties  and  ac- 
cepted the  compliments  of  her  neighbour.  "A 
woman  of  mysteries  "  some  one  had  once  called  her, 
and  he  realized  that  it  was  the  mouth  and  the  dark, 
tired  eyes  which  puzzled  those  who  attempted  to 
classify  her.  What  a  triumph  —  to  bring  her 
down  to  the  world  of  ordinary  women,  to  drive 
the  weariness  away,  to  feel  the  soft  touch,  perhaps, 
of  those  wonderful  arms!  He  was  a  young  man 
of  many  conquests,  and  with  a  sufficiently  good 


BEATING  HER  WINGS  35 

idea  of  himself.     The  thought  was  like  wine  in  his 
blood.     If  only  it  were  possible! 

He  relapsed  into  a  day-dream,  from  which  he 
was  aroused  only  by  the  soft  flutter  of  gowns  and 
laces  as  the  women  rose  to  go.  There  was  a  momen- 
tary disarrangement  of  seats.  Gilbert  Deyes,  who 
was  on  the  other  side  of  the  table,  rose,  and  carrying 
his  glass  in  his  hand,  came  deliberately  round  to 
the  vacant  seat  by  the  young  man's  side.  In  his 
evening  clothes,  the  length  and  gauntness  of  his 
face  and  figure  seemed  more  noticeable  than  ever. 
His  skin  was  dry,  almost  like  parchment,  and  his 
eyes  by  contrast  appeared  unnaturally  bright.  His 
new  neighbour  noticed,  too,  that  the  glass  which 
he  carried  so  carefully  contained  nothing  but 
water. 

"I  will  come  and  talk  to  you  for  a  few  minutes, 
if  I  may,"  Deyes  said.  "I  leave  the  Church  and 
agriculture  to  hobnob.  Somehow  I  don't  fancy 
that  as  a  buffer  I  should  be  a  success." 

Young  Hurd  smiled  amiably.  He  was  more  than 
a  little  flattered. 

"The  Archdeacon,"  he  remarked,  "is  not  an  in- 
spiring neighbour." 

Deyes  lit  one  of  his  own  cigarettes  and  passed  his 
case. 

"I  have  found  the  Archdeacon  very  dull,"  he 
admitted  —  "a  privilege  of  his  order,  I  suppose. 
By  the  bye,  you  are  having  a  dose  of  religion  from 
a  new  source  hereabouts,  are  you  not?  " 

"You  mean  this  young  missioner? "  Hurd  in- 
quired doubtfully. 

Deyes  nodded. 


36  THE  MISSIONER 

"I  was  with  our  hostess  when  he  came  up  to  ask 
for  the  loan  of  a  barn  to  hold  services  in.  A  very 
queer  sort  of  person,  I  should  think?  " 

"I  haven't  spoken  to  him,"  Kurd  answered,  "but 
I  should  think  he's  more  or  less  mad.  I  can  under- 
stand mission  and  Salvation  Army  work  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing  in  the  cities,  but  I'm  hanged  if 
I  can  understand  any  one  coming  to  Thorpe  with 
such  notions." 

"Our  hostess  is  annoyed  about  it,  I  imagine," 
Deyes  remarked. 

"She  seems  to  have  taken  a  dislike  to  the  fellow," 
Hurd  admitted.  "She  was  speaking  to  me  about 
him  just  now.  He  is  to  be  turned  out  of  his  lodgings 
here." 

Gilbert  Deyes  smiled.     The  news  interested  him. 

"Our  hostess  is  practical  in  her  dislikes,"  he 
remarked. 

"Why  not?"  his  neighbour  answered.  "The 
place  belongs  to  her." 

Deyes  watched  for  a  moment  the  smoke  from  his 
cigarette,  curling  upwards. 

"The  young  man,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  "im- 
pressed me  as  being  a  person  of  some  determination. 
I  wonder  whether  he  will  consent  to  accept  defeat 
so  easily." 

The  agent's  son  scarcely  saw  what  else  there  was 
for  him  to  do. 

"There  isn't  anywhere  round  here,"  he  remarked, 
"where  they  would  take  him  in  against  Miss  Thorpe- 
Hatton's  wishes.  Besides,  he  has  nowhere  to 
preach.  His  coming  here  at  all  was  a  huge  mistake. 
If  he's  a  sensible  person  he'll  admit  it." 


BEATING  HER  WINGS  37 

Deyes  nodded  as  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  lounged 
towards  the  door  with  the  other  men. 

"Play  bridge?  "  he  asked  his  companion,  as  they 
crossed  the  hall. 

"A  little/'  the  young  man  answered,  "for  mode- 
rate stakes.  " 

They  entered  the  drawing-room,  and  Deyes  made 
his  way  to  a  secluded  corner,  where  Lady  Peggy  sat 
scribbling  alone  in  a  note-book. 

"My  dear  Lady  Peggy,"  he  inquired,  "whence 
this  exceptional  industry?  " 

She  closed  the  book  and  looked  up  at  him  with 
twinkling  eyes. 

"Well,  I  didn't  mean  to  tell  a  soul  until  it  was 
finished,"  she  declared,  "but  you've  just  caught  me. 
I've  had  such  a  brilliant  idea.  I'm  going  to  write  a 
Society  Encyclopaedia!" 

Deyes  looked  at  her  solemnly. 

"A  Society  Encyclopaedia!"  he  repeated  un- 
certainly. "'Pon  my  word,  I'm  not  quite  sure  that 
I  understand." 

She  motioned  him  to  sit  down  by  her  side. 

"I'll  explain,"  she  said.  "You  know  we're  all 
expected  to  know  something  about  everything  now- 
adays, and  it's  such  a  bore  reading  up  things.  I'm 
going  to  compile  a  little  volume  of  definitions.  I 
shall  sell  it  at  a  guinea  a  copy,  pay  all  my  debts, 
and  become  quite  respectable  again." 

Deyes  shook  his  head.  His  attitude  was  scarcely 
sympathetic. 

"My  dear  Lady  Peggy,  what  nonsense!"  he  de- 
clared. "Respectable,  indeed!  I  call  it  positively 
pandering  to  the  middle  classes!  " 


38  THE  MISSJONER 

Lady  Peggy  looked  doubtful. 

"It  is  a  horrid  word,  isn't  it?"  she  admitted, 
"but  it  would  be  lovely  to  make  some  money.  Of 
course,  I  haven't  absolutely  decided  how  to  spend  it 
yet.  It  does  seem  rather  a  waste,  doesn't  it,  to  pay 
one's  debts,  but  think  of  the  luxury  of  feeling  one 
could  do  it  if  one  wanted  to!  " 

"  There's  something  in  that,"  Deyes  admitted. 
"But  an  encyclopaedia!  My  dear  Lady  Peggy, 
you  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about.  I've 
got  one  somewhere,  I  know.  It  came  in  a  van,  and 
it  took  two  of  the  men  to  unload  it." 

Lady  Peggy  laughed  softly. 

"Oh!  I  don't  mean  that  sort,  of  course,"  she 
declared.  "I  mean  just  a  little  gilt-edged  text  book, 
bound  in  morocco,  you  know,  with  just  those  things 
in  it  we're  likely  to  run  up  against.  Radium,  for 
instance.  Now  every  one's  talking  about  radium. 
Do  you  know  what  radium  is?  " 

Deyes  swung  his  eyeglass  carefully  by  its  black 
riband. 

"Well,"  he  admitted,  "I've  a  sort  of  idea,  but 
I'm  not  very  good  at  definitions." 

"Of  course  not,"  Lady  Peggy  declared  trium- 
phantly. "When  it  comes  to  the  point,  you  see 
what  a  good  idea  mine  is.  You  turn  to  my  text- 
book," she  added,  turning  the  pages  over  rapidly, 
"and  there  you  are.  Radium!  'A  hard,  rare 
substance,  invented  by  Mr.  Gillette  to  give  tone 
to  his  bachelor  parties.'  What  do  you  think  of 
that?  " 

"  Wonderful !  "  Deyes  declared  solemnly.  "  Where 
do  you  get  your  information  from?  " 


BEATING  HER  WINGS  39 

"Oh!  I  poke  about  in  dictionaries  and  things,  and 
ask  every  one  questions/'  Lady  Peggy  declared 
airily.  "Would  you  like  to  hear  some  more?  " 

uOur  hostess  is  beckoning  to  me,"  Deyes  an- 
swered, rising.  "I  expect  she  wants  some  bridge." 

"I'm  on,"  Lady  Peggy  declared  cheerfully. 
"Whom  shall  we  get  for  a  fourth?  " 

"Wilhelmina  has  found  him  already,"  Deyes 
declared.  "It's  the  new  young  man,  I  think." 

Lady   Peggy  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"The  agent's  son?  "  she  remarked.  "I  shouldn't 
have  thought  that  he  would  have  cared  about  our 
points." 

"He  can  afford  it  for  once  in  a  way,  I  should 
imagine,"  Deyes  answered.  "I  can't  understand, 
though " 

He  stopped  short.     She  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"Is  it  possible,"  she  murmured,  "that  there 
exists  anything  which  Gilbert  Deyes  does  not 
understand?  " 

"Many  things,"  he  answered;  "amongst  them, 
why  does  Wilhelmina  patronize  this  young  man? 
He  is  well  enough,  of  course,  but  -  "  he  shrugged 
his  shoulders  expressively;  "the  thing  needs  an 
explanation,  doesn't  it?  " 

"If  Wilhelmina — were  not  Wilhelmina,  it  cer- 
tainly would,"  Lady  Peggy  answered.  "I  call  her 
craving  for  new  things  and  new  people  positively 
morbid.  All  the  time  she  beats  her  wings  against 
the  bars.  There  are  no  new  things.  There  are  no 
new  experiences.  The  sooner  one  makes  up  one's 
mind  to  it  the  better. " 

Gilbert  Deyes  laughed  softly. 


40  THE  MISSIONER 

"If  my  memory  serves  me,"  he  said,  "you  are 
repeating  a  cry  many  thousand  years  old.  Wasn't 
there  a  prophet  - 

"There  was,"  .she  interrupted,  "but  they  are 
beckoning  us.  I  hope  I  don't  cut  with  the  young 
man.  I  don't  believe  he  has  a  bridge  face." 


CHAPTER  V 

EVICTED 

TTTCTOR  MACHESON  smoked  his  after-break- 
*  fast  pipe  with  the  lazy  enjoyment  of  one  who 
is  thoroughly  at  peace  with  himself  and  his  sur- 
roundings. The  tiny  strip  of  lawn  on  to  which  he 
had  dragged  his  chair  was  surrounded  with  straggling 
bushes  of  cottage  flowers,  and  flanked  by  a  hedge 
thick  with  honeysuckle.  Straight  to  heaven,  as  the 
flight  of  a  bird,  the  thin  line  of  blue  smoke  curled 
upwards  to  the  summer  sky;  the  very  air  seemed 
full  of  sweet  scents  and  soothing  sounds.  A  few 
yards  away,  a  procession  of  lazy  cows  moved  lei- 
surely along  the  grass-bordered  lane;  from  the  other 
side  of  the  hedge  came  the  cheerful  sound  of  a 
reaping-machine,  driven  slowly  through  the  field 
of  golden  corn. 

The  man,  through  half  closed  eyes,  looked  out 
upon  these  things,  and  every  line  in  his  face  spelt 
contentment.  In  repose,  the  artistic  temperament 
with  which  he  was  deeply  imbued,  asserted  itself 
more  clearly  —  the  almost  fanatical  light  in  his  eyes 
was  softened;  one  saw  there  was  something  of  the 
wistfulness  of  those  who  seek  to  raise  but  a  corner 
of  the  veil  that  hangs  before  the  world  of  hidden 


42  THE  MISSIONER 

things  —  something,  too,  of  the  subdued  joy  which 
even  the  effort  brings.  The  lines  of  his  forceful 
mouth  were  less  firm,  more  sensitive  —  a  greater 
sense  of  humanity  seemed  somehow  to  have  de- 
scended upon  him  as  he  lounged  there  in  the  warmth 
of  the  sun,  with  the  full  joy  of  his  beautiful  environ- 
ment creeping  through  his  blood. 

"If  you  please,  Mr.  Macheson,"  some  one  said  in 
his  ear. 

He  turned  his  head  at  once.  A  tall,  fair  girl  had 
stepped  out  of  the  room  where  he  had  been  break- 
fasting, and  was  standing  by  his  elbow.  She  was 
neatly  dressed,  pretty  in  a  somewhat  insipid  fashion, 
and  her  hands  and  hair  showed  signs  of  a  refinement 
superior  to  her  station.  Just  now  she  was  appar- 
ently nervous.  Macheson  smiled  at  her  encourag- 
ingly. 

"Well,  Letty,"  he  said,  "what  is  it?  " 

"I  wanted  —  can  I  say  something  to  you,  Mr. 
Macheson?  "  she  began. 

"Why  not?"  he  answered  kindly.  "Is  it  any- 
thing very  serious?  Out  with  it!" 

"I  was  thinking,  Mr.  Macheson,"  she  said,  "that 
I  should  like  to  leave  home  —  if  I  could  —  if  there 
was  anything  which  I  could  do.  I  wanted  to  ask 
your  advice." 

He  laid  down  his  pipe  and  looked  at  her  seriously. 

"Why,  Letty,"  he  said,  "how  long  have  you  been 
thinking  of  this?  " 

"Oh!  ever  so  long,  sir,"  she  exclaimed,  speaking 
with  more  confidence.  "You  see  there's  nothing 
for  me  to  do  here  except  when  there's  any  one  stay- 
ing, like  you,  sir,  and  that's  not  often.  Mother 


EVICTED 

won't  let  me  help  with  the  rough  work,  and  Ruth's 
growing  up  now,  she's  ever  such  a  strong  girl.  And 
I  should  like  to  go  away  if  I  could,  and  learn  to  be 
a  little  more  —  more  ladylike,"  she  added,  with 
reddening  cheeks. 

Macheson  was  puzzled.  The  girl  was  not  looking 
him  in  the  face.  He  felt  there  was  something  at 
the  back  of  it  all. 

"My  dear  girl,"  he  said,  "you  can't  learn  to  be 
ladylike.  That's  one  of  the  things  that's  born  with 
you  or  it  isn't.  You  can  be  just  as  much  a  lady 
helping  your  mother  here  as  practising  grimaces  in 
a  London  drawing-room." 

"But  I  want  to  improve  myself,"  she  persisted. 

"Go  for  a  long  walk  every  day,  and  look  about 

you,"  he  said.     "Read.     I'll  lend  you  some  books 

-  the  right  sort.     You'll  do  better  here  than  away." 

She  was  frankly  dissatisfied. 

"But  I  want  to  go  away,"  she  declared.  "I  want 
to  leave  Thorpe  for  a  time.  I  should  like  to  go  to 
London.  Couldn't  I  get  a  situation  as  lady's  help 
or  companion  or  something  of  that  sort?  I  shouldn't 
want  any  money." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"Does  your  mother  know  of  this,  Letty?  "  he 
asked. 

"She  wouldn't  object,"  the  girl  answered  eagerly. 
"She  lets  me  do  what  I  like." 

"  Hadn't  you  better  tell  me  —  the  rest?  "  Mache- 
son asked  quietly. 

The  girl  looked  away  uneasily. 

"There  is  no  rest,"  she  protested  weakly. 

Macheson  shook  his  head. 


44  THE  MISSIONER 

"Letty,"  he  said,  "if  you  have  formed  any  ideas 
of  a  definite  future  for  yourself,  different  from  any 
you  see  before  you  here,  tell  me  what  they  are,  and 
I  will  do  my  best  to  help  you.  But  if  you  simply 
want  to  go  away  because  you  are  dissatisfied  with 
the  life  here,  because  you  fancy  yourself  superior 
to  it,  well,  I'm  sorry,  but  I'd  sooner  prevent  your 
going  than  help  you." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"Oh!  Mr.  Macheson,  it  isn't  that,"  she  declared, 
"I  —  I  don't  want  to  tell  any  one,  but  I'm  very  — 
very  fond  of  some  one  who's  —  quite  different.  I 
think  he's  fond  of  me,  too/'  she  added  softly,  "but 
he's  always  used  to  being  with  ladies,  and  I  wanted 
to  improve  myself  so  much!  I  thought  if  I  went 
to  London,"  she  added  wistfully,  "I  might  learn?  " 

Macheson  laughed  cheerfully.  He  laid  his  hand 
for  a  moment  upon  her  arm. 

"Oh!  Letty,  Letty,"  he  declared,  "you're  a 
foolish  little  girl!  Now,  listen  to  me.  If  he's  a 
good  sort,  and  I'm  sure  he  is,  or  you  wouldn't  be 
fond  of  him,  he'll  like  you  just  exactly  as  you  are. 
Do  you  know  what  it  means  to  be  a  lady,  the  su- 
preme test  of  good  manners?  It  means  to  be 
natural.  Take  my  advice!  Go  on  helping  your 
mother,  enter  into  the  village  life,  make  friends  with 
the  other  girls,  don't  imagine  yourself  a  bit  superior 
to  anybody  else.  Read  when  you  have  time  —  I'll 
manage  the  books  for  you,  and  spend  all  the  time 
you  can  out  of  doors.  It's  sound  advice,  Letty. 
Take  my  word  for  it.  Hullo,  who's  this?  " 

A  new  sound  in  the  lane  made  them  both  turn 
their  heads.  Young  Hurd  had  just  ridden  up  and 


EVICTED  45 

was  fastening  his  pony  to  the  fence.  He  looked 
across  at  them  curiously,  and  Letty  retreated  pre- 
cipitately into  the  house.  A  moment  or  two  later 
he  came  up  the  narrow  path,  frowning  at  Macheson 
over  the  low  hedge  of  foxgloves  and  cottage  roses, 
and  barely  returning  his  courteous  greeting.  For 
a  moment  he  hesitated,  however,  as  though  about 
to  speak.  Then,  changing  his  mind,  he  passed  on 
and  entered  the  farmhouse. 

He  met  Mrs.  Foulton  herself  in  the  passage,  and 
she  welcomed  him  with  a  smiling  face. 

" Good  morning,  Mr.  Kurd,  sir!"  she  exclaimed, 
plucking  at  her  apron.  "Won't  you  come  inside, 
sir,  and  sit  down?  The  parlour's  let  to  Mr.  Macheson 
there,  but  he's  out  in  the  garden,  and  he  won't 
mind  your  stepping  in  for  a  moment.  And  how's 
your  father,  Mr.  Hurd?  Wonderful  well  he  was 
looking  when  I  saw  him  last." 

The  young  man  followed  her  inside,  but  declined 
a  chair. 

"Oh!  the  governor's  all  right,  Mrs.  Foulton,"  he 
answered.  "Never  knew  him  anything  else.  Good 
weather  for  the  harvest,  eh?  " 

"Beautiful,  sir!"     Mrs.  Foulton  answered. 

"  Were  you  wanting  to  speak  to  John,  Mr.  Stephen? 
He's  about  the  home  meadow  somewhere,  or  in  the 
orchard.  I  can  send  a  boy  for  him,  or  perhaps 
you'd  step  out." 

"It's  you  I  came  to  see,  Mrs.  Foulton,"  the  young 
man  said,  "and  'pon  my  word,  I  don't  like  my 
errand  much." 

Mrs.  Foulton  was  visibly  anxious. 

"There's  no  trouble  like,  I  hope,  sir?  "  she  began. 


46  THE  MISSIONER 

'Oh!  it's  nothing  serious,"  he  declared  reassur- 
ingly. "To  tell  you  the  truth,  it's  about  your 
lodger." 

"About  Mr.  Macheson,  sir!"  the  woman  ex- 
claimed. 

"Yes!  Do  you  know  how  long  he  was  proposing 
to  stay  with  you?  " 

"He's  just  took  the  rooms  for  another  week,  sir," 
she  answered,  "and  a  nicer  lodger,  or  one  more 
quiet  and  regular  in  his  habits,  I  never  had  or  wish 
to  have.  There's  nothing  against  him,  sir  — 
surely?  " 

"Nothing  personal — that  I  know  of,"  Kurd 
answered,  tapping  his  boots  with  his  riding-whip. 
"The  fact  of  it  is,  he  has  offended  Miss  Thorpe- 
Hatton,  and  she  wants  him  out  of  the  place." 

"Well,  I  never  did!"  Mrs.  Foulton  exclaimed  in 
amazement.  "Him  offend  Miss  Thorpe-Hatton! 
So  nice-spoken  he  is,  too.  I'm  sure  I  can't  imagine 
his  saying  a  wry  word  to  anybody." 

"He  has  come  to  Thorpe,"  Kurd  explained,  "on 
an  errand  of  which  Miss  Thorpe-Hatton  disapproves, 
and  she  does  not  wish  to  have  him  in  the  place.  She 
knows  that  he  is  staying  here,  and  she  wishes  you  to 
send  him  away  at  once." 

Mrs.  Foulton's  face  fell. 

"Well,  I'm  fair  sorry  to  hear  this,  sir,"  she  de- 
clared. "It's  only  this  morning  that  he  spoke  for 
the  rooms  for  another  week,  and  I  was  glad  and 
willing  enough  to  let  them  to  him.  Well  I  never 
did!  It  does  sound  all  anyhow,  don't  it,  sir,  to  be 
telling  him  to  pack  up  and  go  sudden-like!  " 

"I  will  speak  to  him  myself,  if  you  like,   Mrs. 


EVICTED  47 

Foulton,"  Stephen  said.  "Of  course,  Miss  Thorpe- 
Hatton  does  not  wish  you  to  lose  anything,  and  I 
am  to  pay  you  the  rent  of  the  rooms  for  the  time  he 
engaged  them.  I  will  do  so  at  once,  if  you  will  let 
me  know  how  much  it  is." 

He  thrust  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  but  Mrs. 
Foulton  drew  back.  The  corners  of  her  mouth 
were  drawn  tightly  together. 

" Thank  you,  Mr.  Stephen,"  she  said,  "I'll  obey 
Miss  Thorpe-Hatton's  wishes,  of  course,  as  in  duty 
bound,  but  I'll  not  take  any  money  for  the  rooms. 
Thank  you  all  the  same." 

"Don't  be  foolish,  Mrs.  Foulton,"  the  young  man 
said  pleasantly.  "It  will  annoy  Miss  Thorpe- 
Hatton  if  she  knows  you  have  refused,  and  you  may 
just  as  well  have  the  money.  Let  me  see.  Shall 
we  say  a  couple  of  sovereigns  for  the  week?  " 

Mrs.  Foulton  shook  her  head. 

"I'll  not  take  anything,  sir,  thank  you  all  the 
same,  and  if  you'd  say  a  word  to  Mr.  Macheson,  I'd 
be  much  obliged.  I'd  rather  any  one  spoke  to  him 
than  me." 

Stephen  Hurd  pocketed  the  money  with  a  shrug 
of  the  shoulders. 

"Just  as  you  like,  of  course,  Mrs.  Foulton,"  he 
said.  "I'll  go  out  and  speak  to  the  young  gentle- 
man at  once." 

He  strolled  out  and  looked  over  the  hedge. 

"Mr.  Mac'heson,  I  believe?"  he  remarked  inter- 
rogatively. 

Macheson  nodded  as  he  rose  from  his  chair. 

"And  you  are  Mr.  Kurd's  son,  are  you  not?  "  he 
said  pleasantly.  "Wonderful  morning,  isn't  it?" 


48  THE  MISSIONER 

Young  Hurd  stepped  over  the  rose  bushes.  The 
two  men  stood  side  by  side,  something  of  a  height, 
only  that  the  better  cut  of  Kurd's  clothes  showed 
his  figure  to  greater  advantage. 

"I'm  sorry  to  say  that  I've  come  on  rather  a  dis- 
agreeable errand,"  the  agent's  son  began.  "I've 
been  talking  to  Mrs.  Foulton  about  it." 

"Indeed?"    Macheson   remarked   interrogatively. 

"The  fact  is  you  seem  to  have  rubbed  up  against 
our  great  lady  here,"  young  Hurd  continued.  "She's 
very  down  on  these  services  you  were  going  to  hold, 
and  she  wants  to  see  you  out  of  the  place." 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  this,"  Macheson  said  —  and 
once  more  waited. 

"It  isn't  a  pleasant  task,"  Stephen  continued, 
liking  his  errand  less  as  he  proceeded;  "but  I've 
had  to  tell  Mrs.  Foulton  that  —  that,  in  short,  Miss 
Thorpe-Hatton  does  not  wish  her  tenants  to  accept 
you  as  a  lodger." 

"Miss  Thorpe-Hatton  makes  war  on  a  wide  scale," 
Macheson  remarked,  smiling  faintly. 

"Well,  after  all,  you  see,"  Hurd  explained,  "the 
whole  place  belongs  to  her,  and  there  is  no  particu- 
lar reason,  is  there,  why  she  should  tolerate  any  one 
in  it  of  whom  she  disapproves?" 

"None  whatever,"  Macheson  assented  gravely. 

"I  promised  Mrs.  Foulton  I  would  speak  to  you/' 
Stephen  continued,  stepping  backwards.     "  I'm  surt. 
for  her  sake,  you  won't  make  any  trouble.     Good 
morning!  " 

Macheson  bowed  slightly. 

"Good  morning!  "  he  answered. 

Stephen  Hurd  lingered  even  then  upon  the  gar- 


EVICTED  49 

den  path.  Somehow  he  was  not  satisfied  with  his 
interview  —  with  his  own  position  at  the  end  of  it. 
He  had  an  uncomfortable  sense  of  belittlement, 
of  having  played  a  small  part  in  a  not  altogether 
worthy  game.  The  indifference  of  the  other's 
manner  nettled  him.  He  tried  a  parting  shaft. 

"Mrs.  Foulton  said  something  about  your  having 
engaged  the  rooms  for  another  week,"  he  said,  turn- 
ing back.  "Of  course,  if  you  insist  upon  staying, 
it  will  place  the  woman  in  a  very  awkward  posi- 
tion." 

Macheson  had  resumed  his  seat. 

"I  should  not  dream,"  he  said  coolly,  "of  resist- 
ing—  your  mistress'  decree!  I  shall  leave  here  in 
half  an  hour." 

Young  Hurd  walked  angrily  down  the  path  and 
slammed  the  gate.  The  sense  of  having  been 
worsted  was  strong  upon  him.  He  recognized  his 
own  limitations  too  accurately  not  to  be  aware  that 
he  had  been  in  conflict  with  a  stronger  personality. 

"D—  -the  fellow!  "  he  muttered,  as  he  cantered 
down  the  lane.  "I  wish  he  were  out  of  the  place." 

A  genuine  wish,  and  one  which  betrayed  at  least 
a  glimmering  of  a  prophetic  instinct.  In  some  dim 
way  he  seemed  to  understand,  even  before  the  first 
move  on  the  board,  that  the  coming  of  Victor  Mache- 
son to  Thorpe  was  inimical  to  himself.  He  was 
conscious  of  his  weakness,  of  a  marked  inferiority, 
and  the  consciousness  was  galling.  The  fellow  had 
no  right  to  be  a  gentleman,  he  told  himself  angrily  — 
a  gentleman  and  a  missioner! 

Macheson  re-lit  his  pipe  and  called  to  Mrs.  Foulton. 

"Mrs.  Foulton,"  he  said  pleasantly,  "I'll  have  to 


50  THE  MISSIONER 

go!     Your  great  lady  doesn't  like  me  on  the  estate. 
I  dare  say  she's  right." 

"I'm sure  I'm  very  sorry,  sir,"  Mrs.  Foulton  de- 
clared shamefacedly.  "You've  seen  young  Mr. 
Hurd?  " 

"He  was  kind  enough  to  explain  the  situation  to 
me,"  Macheson  answered.  "I'm  afraid  I  am  rather 
a  nuisance  to  everybody.  If  I  am,  it's  because  they 
don't  quite  understand!" 

"I'm  sure,  sir,"  Mrs.  Foulton  affirmed,  "a  nicer 
lodger  no  one  ever  had.  And  as  for  them  services, 
and  the  Vicar  objecting  to  them,  I  can't  see  what 
harm  they'd  do!  We're  none  of  us  so  good  but 
we  might  be  a  bit  better!  " 

"A  very  sound  remark,  Mrs.  Foulton,"  Macheson 
said,  smiling.  "And  now  you  must  make  out  my 
bill,  please,  and  what  about  a  few  sandwiches?  You 
could  manage  that?  I'm  going  to  play  in  a  cricket 
match  this  afternoon." 

"Why  you've  just  paid  the  bill,  sir!  There's  only 
breakfast,  and  the  sandwiches  you're  welcome  to, 
and  very  sorry  I  am  to  part  with  you,  sir." 

"Better  luck  another  time,  I  hope,  Mrs.  Foulton," 
he  answered,  smiling.  "I  must  go  upstairs  and  pack 
my  bag.  I  shan't  forget  your  garden  with  its 
delicious  flowers." 

"It's  a  shame  as  you've  got  to  leave  it,  sir,"  Mrs. 
Foulton  said  heartily.  "If  my  Richard  were  alive 
he'd  never  have  let  you  go  for  all  the  Miss  Thorpe- 
Hattons  in  the  world.  But  John  —  he's  little  more 
than  a  lad  —  he'd  be  frightened  to  death  for  fear  of 
losing  the  farm,  if  I  so  much  as  said  a  word  to  him." 

Macheson  laughed  softly. 


EVICTED  51 

"  John's  a  good  son,"  he  said.  "  Don't  you  worry 
him." 

He  went  up  to  his  tiny  bedroom  and  changed  his 
clothes  for  a  suit  of  flannels.  Then  he  packed  his 
few  belongings  and  walked  out  into  the  world.  He 
lit  a  pipe  and  shouldered  his  portmanteau. 

''There  is  a  flavour  of  martyrdom  about  this 
affair,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  strolled  along, 
"  which  appeals  to  me.  I  don't  think  that  young 
man  has  any  sense  of  humour. " 

He  paused  every  now  and  then  to  listen  to  the 
birds  and  admire  the  view.  He  had  the  air  of  one 
thoroughly  enjoying  his  walk.  Presently  he  turned 
off  the  main  road,  and  wandered  along  a  steep  green 
lane,  which  was  little  more  than  a  cart-track.  Here 
he  met  no  one.  The  country  on  either  side  was 
common  land,  sown  with  rocks  and  the  poorest  soil, 
picturesque,  but  almost  impossible  of  cultivation.  A 
few  sheep  were  grazing  upon  the  hills,  but  other 
sign  of  life  there  was  none.  Not  a  farm-house  — 
scarcely  a  keeper's  cottage  in  sight!  It  was  a  for- 
gotten corner  of  a  not  unpopulous  county  —  the 
farthest  portion  of  a  belt  of  primeval  forest  land, 
older  than  history  itself.  Macheson  laughed  softly 
as  he  reached  the  spot  he  had  had  in  his  mind,  and 
threw  his  bag  over  the  grey  stone  wall  into  the  cool 
shade  of  a  dense  fragment  of  wood. 

"So  much,"  he  murmured  softly,  "for  the  lady  of 
Thorpe!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

CRICKET  AND  PHILOSOPHY 

instinct  for  games,"  Wilhelmina  remarked, 
"is  one  which  I  never  possessed.  Let  us  see 
whether  we  can  learn  something." 

In  obedience  to  her  gesture,  the  horses  were 
checked,  and  the  footman  clambered  down  and 
stood  at  their  heads.  Deyes,  from  his  somewhat 
uncomfortable  back  seat  in  the  victoria,  leaned 
forward,  and,  adjusting  his  eyeglass,  studied  the 
scene  with  interest. 

"Here,"  he  remarked,  "we  have  the  'flannelled 
fool '  upon  his  native  heath.  They  are  playing  a 
game  which  my  memory  tells  me  is  cricket.  Every- 
one seems  very  hot  and  very  excited." 

Wilhelmina  beckoned  to  the  footman  to  come 
round  to  the  side  of  the  carriage. 

"James,"  she  said,  "do  you  know  what  all  this 
means?  " 

She  waved  her  hand  towards  the  cricket  pitch,  the 
umpires  with  their  white  coats,  the  tent  and  the 
crowd  of  spectators.  The  man  touched  his  hat. 

"It  is  a  cricket  match,  madam,"  he  answered, 
"between  Thorpe  and  Nesborough." 

Wilhelmina  looked  once  more  towards  the  field, 


CRICKET  AND  PHILOSOPHY  53 

and  recognized  Mr.  Hurd  upon  his  stout  little 
cob. 

"Go  and  tell  Mr.  Hurd  to  come  and  speak  to  me," 
she  ordered. 

The  man  hastened  off.  Mr.  Hurd  had  not  once 
turned  his  head.  His  eyes  were  riveted  upon  the 
game.  The  groom  found  it  necessary  to  touch  him 
on  the  arm  before  he  could  attract  his  attention. 
Even  when  he  had  delivered  his  message,  the  agent 
waited  until  the  finish  of  the  over  before  he  moved. 
Then  he  cantered  his  pony  up  to  the  waiting  carriage. 
Wilhelmina  greeted  him  graciously. 

"I  want  to  know  about  the  cricket  match,  Mr. 
Hurd,"  she  asked,  smiling. 

Mr.  Hurd  wheeled  his  pony  round  so  that  he  could 
still  watch  the  game. 

"I  am  afraid  that  we  are  going  to  be  beaten, 
madam,"  he  said  dolefully.  "Nesborough  made  a 
hundred  and  ninety-eight,  and  we  have  six  wickets 
down  for  fifty." 

Wilhelmina  seemed  scarcely  to  realize  the  tragedy 
which  his  words  unfolded. 

"I  suppose  they  are  the  stronger  team,  aren't 
they?"  she  remarked.  "They  ought  to  be.  Nes- 
borough  is  quite  a  large  town." 

"We  have  beaten  them  regularly  until  the  last 
two  years,"  Mr.  Hurd  answered.  "We  should  beat 
them  now  but  for  their  fast  bowler,  Mills.  I  don't 
know  how  it  is,  but  our  men  will  not  stand  up  to 
him." 

"Perhaps  they  are  afraid  of  being  hurt,"  Wilhel- 
mina suggested  innocently.  "If  that  is  he  bowling 
now,  I'm  sure  I  don't  wonder  at  it." 


54  THE  MISSIONER 

Mr.   Kurd  frowned. 

"We  don't  have  men  in  the  eleven  who  are  afraid 
of  getting  hurt,"  he  remarked  stiffly. 

A  shout  of  dismay  from  the  onlookers,  a  smothered 
exclamation  from  Mr.  Kurd,  and  a  man  was  seen 
on  his  way  to  the  pavilion.  His  wickets  were 
spreadeagled,  and  the  ball  was  being  tossed  about 
the  field. 

"Another  wicket!  "  the  agent  exclaimed  testily. 
"Crooks  played  all  round  that  ball!" 

"Isn't  that  your  son  going  in,  Mr.  Hurd?  "  Wil- 
helmina  asked. 

"Yes!  Stephen  is  in  now,"  his  father  answered. 
"If  he  gets  out,  the  match  is  over." 

"Who  is  the  other  batsman?  "  Deyes  asked. 

"Antill,  the  second  bailiff,"  Mr.  Hurd  answered. 
"He's  captain,  and  he  can  stay  in  all  day,  but  he 
can't  make  runs." 

They  all  leaned  forward  to  witness  the  continua- 
tion of  the  match.  Stephen  Kurd's  career  was  brief 
and  inglorious.  He  took  guard  and  looked  care- 
fully round  the  field  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  is 
going  to  give  trouble.  Then  he  saw  the  victoria, 
with  its  vision  of  parasols  and  fluttering  laces,  and 
the  sight  was  fatal  to  him.  He  slogged  wildly  at 
the  first  ball,  missed  it,  and  paid  the  penalty.  The 
lady  in  the  carriage  frowned,  and  Mr.  Hurd  mut- 
tered something  under  his  breath  as  he  watched  his 
son  on  the  way  back  to  the  tent. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  all  up  with  us  now,"  he  remarked. 
"  We  have  only  three  more  men  to  go  in." 

"Then  we  are  going  to  be  beaten,"  Wilhelmina 
remarked. 


CRICKET  AND  PHILOSOPHY  55 

"I'm  afraid  so,"  Mr.  Kurd  assented  gloomily. 

The  next  batsman  had  issued  from  the  tent  and 
was  on  his  way  to  the  wicket.  Wilhelmina,  who 
had  been  about  to  give  an  order  to  the  footman, 
watched  him  curiously. 

"Who  is  that  going  in?  "  she  asked  abruptly. 

Mr.  Hurd  was  looking  not  altogether  comfortable. 

"It  is  the  young  man  who  wanted  to  preach,"  he 
answered. 

Wilhelmina  frowned. 

"Why  is  he  playing?"  she  asked.  "He  has 
nothing  to  do  with  Thorpe." 

"He  came  down  to  see  them  practise  a  few  even- 
ings ago,  and  Antill  asked  him,"  the  agent  an- 
swered. "If  I  had  known  earlier  I  would  have 
stopped  it." 

Wilhelmina  did  not  immediately  reply.  She  was 
watching  the  young  man  who  stood  now  at  the 
wicket,  bat  in  hand.  In  his  flannels,  he  seemed  a 
very  different  person  from  the  missioner  whose 
request  a  few  days  ago  had  so  much  offended  her. 
Nevertheless,  her  lip  curled  as  she  saw  the  terrible 
Mills  prepare  to  deliver  his  first  ball. 

"That  sort  of  person,"  she  remarked,  "is  scarcely 
likely  to  be  much  good  at  games.  Oh!" 

Her  exclamation  was  repeated  in  various  forms 
from  all  over  the  field.  Macheson  had  hit  his  first 
ball  high  over  their  heads,  and  a  storm  of  applause 
broke  from  the  bystanders.  The  batsman  made 
no  attempt  to  run. 

"What  is  that?"  Wilhelmina  asked. 

"A  boundary  —  magnificent  drive,"  Mr.  Hurd 
answered  excitedly.  "By  Jove,  another!" 


56  THE  MISSIONER 

The  agent  dropped  his  reins  and  led  the  applause. 
Along  the  ground  this  time  the  ball  had  come  at 
such  a  pace  that  the  fieldsman  made  a  very  half- 
hearted attempt  to  stop  it.  It  passed  the  horses' 
feet  by  only  a  few  yards.  The  coachman  turned 
round  and  touched  his  hat. 

"  Shall  I  move  farther  back,  madam?"  he 
asked. 

"Stay  where  you  are,"  Wilhelmina  answered 
shortly.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  tall,  lithe 
figure  once  more  facing  the  bowler.  The  next  ball 
was  the  last  of  the  over.  Macheson  played  it  care- 
fully for  a  single,  and  stood  prepared  for  the  bowling 
at  the  other  end.  He  began  by  a  graceful  cut  for 
two,  and  followed  it  up  by  a  square  leg  hit  clean 
out  of  the  ground.  For  the  next  half  an  hour,  the 
Thorpe  villagers  thoroughly  enjoyed  themselves. 
Never  since  the  days  of  one  Foulds,  a  former  black- 
smith, had  they  seen  such  an  exhibition  of  hurricane 
hitting.  The  fast  bowler,  knocked  clean  off  his 
length,  became  wild  and  erratic.  Once  he  only 
missed  Macheson's  head  by  an  inch,  but  his  next 
ball  was  driven  fair  and  square  out  of  the  ground 
for  six.  The  applause  became  frantic. 

Wilhelmina  was  leaning  back  amongst  the  cushions 
of  her  carriage,  watching  the  game  through  half 
closed  eyes,  and  with  some  apparent  return  of  her 
usual  graceful  languor.  Nevertheless,  she  remained 
there,  and  her  eyes  seldom  wandered  for  a  moment 
from  the  scene  of  play.  Beneath  her  apparent 
indifference,  she  was  watching  this  young  man 
with  an  interest  for  which  she  would  have  found 
it  hard  to  account,  and  which  instinct  alone  prompted 


CRICKET  AND  PHILOSOPHY  57 

her  to  conceal.  It  was  a  very  ordinary  scene, 
after  all,  of  which  he  was  the  dominant  figure. 
She  had  seen  so  much  of  life  on  a  larger  scale  - 
of  men  playing  heroic  parts  in  the  limelight  of  a 
stage  as  mighty  as  this  was  insignificant.  Yet, 
without  stopping  to  reason  about  it,  she  was  con- 
scious of  a  curious  sense  of  pleasure  in  watching  the 
doings  of  this  forceful  young  giant.  With  an  easy 
good-humoured  smile,  replaced  every  now  and  then 
with  a  grim  look  of  determination  as  he  jumped  out 
from  the  crease  to  hit,  he  continued  his  victorious 
career,  until  a  more  frantic  burst  of  applause  than 
usual  announced  that  the  match  was  won.  Then 
Wilhelmina  turned  towards  Stephen  Hurd,  who 
was  standing  by  the  side  of  the  carriage. 

"You  executed  my  commission,"  she  asked, 
" respecting  that  young  man?" 

"The  first  thing  this  morning,"  he  answered. 
"I  went  up  to  see  Mrs.  Foulton,  and  I  also  spoke 
to  him." 

"Did  he  make  any  difficulty?" 

"None  at  all!"  the  young  man  answered. 

"What  did  he  say?" 

Stephen  hesitated,  but  Wilhelmina  waited  for  his 
reply.  She  had  the  air  of  one  remotely  interested, 
yet  she  waited  obviously  to  hear  what  this  young 
man  had  said. 

"I  think  he  said  something  about  your  making 
war  upon  a  largescale,"  Stephen  explained  diffidently. 

She  sat  still  for  a  moment.  She  was  looking 
towards  the  deserted  cricket  pitch. 

"Where  is  he  staying  now?"  she  asked. 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  answered.     "I  have  warned 


58  THE  MISSIONER 

all  the  likely  people  not  to  receive  him,  and  I  have 
told  him,  too,  that  he  will  only  get  your  tenants  into 
trouble  if  he  tries  to  get  lodgings,here." 

"I  should  like,"  she  said,  "to  speak  to  him.  Per- 
haps you  would  be  so  good  as  to  ask  him  to  step 
this  way  for  a  moment." 

Stephen  departed,  wondering.  Deyes  was  watch- 
ing his  hostess  with  an  air  of  covert  amusement. 

"Do  you  continue  the  warfare/'  he  asked,  "or 
has  the  young  man's  prowess  softened  your  heart?" 

Wilhelmina  raised  her  parasol  and  looked  steadily 
at  her  questioner. 

"Warfare  is  scarcely  the  word,  is  it?"  she  re- 
marked carelessly.  "I  have  no  personal  objection 
to  the  young  man." 

They  watched  him  crossing  the  field  towards 
them.  Notwithstanding  his  recent  exertions,  he 
walked  lightly,  and  without  any  sign  of  fatigue. 
Deyes  looked  curiously  at  the  crest  upon  the  cap 
which  he  was  carrying  in  his  hand. 

"  Magdalen,"  he  muttered.  "  Your  missioner  grows 
more  interesting." 

Wilhelmina  leaned  forwards.  Her  face  was  in- 
scrutable, and  her  greeting  devoid  of  cordiality. 

"So  you  have  decided  to  teach  my  people  cricket 
instead  of  morals,  Mr.  Macheson,"  she  remarked. 

"The  two,"  he  answered  pleasantly,  "are  not 
incompatible." 

Wilhelmina  frowned. 

"I  hope,"  she  said,  "that  you  have  abandoned 
your  idea  of  holding  meetings  in  the  village." 

"Certainly  not,"  he  answered.  "I  will  begin 
next  week." 


CRICKET  AND  PHILOSOPHY  50 

"You  understand/'  she  said  calmly,  "that  I  con- 
sider you  —  as  a  missioner  —  an  intruder  —  here! 
Those  of  my  people  who  attend  your  services  will 
incur  my  displeasure!" 

"Madam,"  he  answered,  "I  do  not  believe  that 
you  will  visit  it  upon  them." 

"But  I  will,"  she  interrupted  ruthlessly.  "You 
are  young  and  know  little  of  the  world.  You  have 
not  yet  learnt  the  truth  of  one  of  the  oldest  of  pro- 
verbs — •  that  it  is  well  to  let  well  alone!  " 

"It  is  a  sop  for  the  idle,  that  proverb,"  he  an- 
swered. "It  is  the  motto  for  the  great  army  of 
those  who  drift." 

"I  have  been  making  inquiries,"  she  said.  "I 
find  that  my  villagers  are  contented  and  prosperous. 
There  are  no  signs  of  vice  in  the  place." 

"There  is  such  a  thing,"  he  answered,  "as  being 
too  prosperous,  over-contented.  The  person  in 
such  a  state  takes  life  for  granted.  Religion  is  a 
thing  he  hears  about,  but  fails  to  realize.  He  has  no 
need  of  it.  He  becomes  like  the  prize  cattle  in  your 
park!  He  has  a  mind,  but  has  forgotten  how  to 
use  it." 

She  looked  at  him  steadily,  perhaps  a  trifle  inso- 
lently. 

"How  old  are  you,  Mr.  Macheson?"  she  asked. 

"Twenty-eight,"  he  answered,  with  a  slight  flush. 

"Twenty-eight!  You  are  young  to  make  yourself 
the  judge  of  such  things  as  these.  You  will  do  a 
great  deal  of  mischief,  I  am  afraid,  before  you  are 
old  enough  to  realize  it." 

"To  awaken  those  who  sleep  in  the  daytime  —  is 
that  mischief?"  he  asked. 


CO  THE  MISSIONER 

"It  is,"  she  answered  deliberately.  "When  you 
are  older  you  will  realize  it.  Sleep  is  the  best." 

He  bent  towards  her.  The  light  in  his  eyes  had 
blazed  out. 

"You  know  in  your  heart,"  he  said,  "that  it  is 
not  true.  You  have  brains,  and  you  are  as  much 
of  an  artist  as  your  fettered  life  permits  you  to  be. 
You  know  very  well  that  knowledge  is  best." 

"Do  you  believe,"  she  answered,  "that  I  —  I 
take  myself  not  personally  but  as  a  type  —  am  as 
happy  as  they  are?" 

She  moved  her  parasol  to  where  the  village  lay 
beyond  the  trees.  He  hesitated. 

"Madam,"  he  answered  gravely,  "I  know  too 
little  of  your  life  to  answer  your  question." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  For  a  moment  her 
parasol  hid  her  face. 

"We  are  quite  a  la  mode,  are  we  not,  my  dear 
Peggy?"  she  remarked,  with  a  curious  little  laugh. 
"Philosophy  upon  the  village  green.  Gilbert,  tell 
them  to  drive  on." 

She  turned  deliberately  to  Macheson. 

"Come  and  convert  us  instead,"  she  said.  "We 
need  it  more." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it,  madam,"  he  answered.  "  Good 
afternoon!" 

The  carriage  drove  off.  Macheson,  obeying  an 
impulse  which  he  did  not  recognize,  watched  it  till 
it  was  out  of  sight.  At  the  bend,  Wilhelmina 
deliberately  turned  in  her  seat  and  saw  him  standing 
there.  She  waved  her  parasol  in  ironical  farewell, 
and  Macheson  walked  back  to  the  tent  with  burning 
cheeks. 


CHAPTJ 

AN  UNDERNOTE  OF  MUSIC 

A  GREAT  dinner  party  had  come  to  an  end,  and 
the  Lord-Lieutenant  of  the  county  bowed  low 
over  the  cold  hand  of  his  departing  guest,  in  whose 
honour  it  had  been  given.  A  distant  relationship 
gave  Lord  Westerdean  privileges  upon  which  he 
would  willingly  have  improved. 

"You  are  leaving  us  early,  Wilhelmina,"  he  mur- 
mured reproachfully.  "How  can  I  expect  to  keep 
my  other  guests  if  you  desert  us?" 

Wilhelmina  withdrew  the  hand  and  nodded  her 
other  farewells.  The  heat  of  the  summer  evening 
had  brought  every  one  out  from  the  drawing-room. 
The  hall  doors  stood  open,  Those  of  the  guests 
who  were  not  playing  bridge  or  billiards  were  out- 
side upon  the  terrace  —  some  had  wandered  into 
the  gardens. 

"My  dear  Leslie,"  she  said,  as  she  stood  upon  the 
broad  steps,  "you  are  losing  your  habit  of  gallantry. 
A  year  ago  you  would  not  have  ventured  to  suggest 
that  in  my  absence  the  coming  or  going  of  your 
other  guests  could  matter  a  straw." 

"You  know  very  well  that  it  doesn't,"  he  an- 
swered, dropping  his  voice.  "You  know  very 
well » 


62  THE  MISSIONER 

"To-night,"  she  interrupted  calmly,  "I  will  not 
be  made  love  to!  I  am  not  in  the  humour  for  it." 

He  looked  down  at  her  curiously.  He  was  a 
man  of  exceptional  height,  thin,  grey,  still  hand- 
some, an  ex-diplomat,  whose  career,  had  he  chosen  to 
follow  it,  would  have  been  a  brilliant  one.  Wealth 
and  immense  estates  had  thrust  their  burdens  upon 
him,  however,  and  he  was  content  to  be  the  most 
popular  man  in  his  county. 

" There  is  nothing  the  matter?"  he  asked  anx- 
iously. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"You  are  well?"  he  persisted,  dropping  his  voice. 

"Absolutely,"  she  answered.  "It  is  not  that.  It 
is  a  mood.  I  used  to  welcome  moods  as  an  escape 
from  the  ruts.  I  suppose  I  am  getting  too  old  for 
them  now." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said,  "if  the  world  really  knows 
how  young  you  are." 

"Don't,"  she  interrupted,  with  a  shudder,  "I 
have  outlived  my  years." 

A  motor  omnibus  and  a  small  victoria  came  round 
from  the  stables.  The  party  from  Thorpe  began 
slowly  to  assemble  upon  the  steps. 

"I  am  going  in  the  victoria  —  alone,"  she  said, 
resting  her  fingers  upon  his  arm.  "Don't  you  envy 
me?" 

"I  envy  the  vacant  place,"  he  answered  sadly. 
"Isn't  this  desire  for  solitude  somewhat  of  a  new 
departure,  though?" 

"Perhaps,"  she  admitted.  "I  am  rather  looking 
forward  to  my  drive.  To-night,  as  we  came  here, 


AN  UNDERNOTE  OF  MUSIC  63 

the  whole  country  seemed  like  a  great  garden  of 
perfumes  and  beautiful  places.  That  is  why  I  had 
them  telephone  for  a  carriage.  There  are  times 
when  I  hate  motoring!" 

He  broke  off  a  cluster  of  pink  roses  and  placed 
them  in  her  hands. 

"If  your  thoughts  must  needs  fill  the  empty  seat," 
he  whispered,  as  he  bent  over  her  for  his  final  adieux, 
"remember  my  claims,  I  beg.  Perhaps  my  thoughts 
might  even  meet  yours!" 

She  laughed  under  her  breath,  but  the  light  in 
his  eyes  was  unanswered. 

"Perhaps!"  she  answered.  "It  is  a  night  for 
thoughts  and  dreams,  this.  Even  I  may  drift  into 
sentiment.  Good  night!  Such  a  charming  even- 
ing." 

The  carriage  rolled  smoothly  down  the  avenue 
from  the  great  house,  over  which  she  might  so  easily 
have  reigned,  and  turned  into  the  road.  A  few 
minutes  later  the  motor-car  flashed  by.  Afterwards 
there  was  solitude,  for  it  was  already  past  midnight. 
Gilbert  Deyes  looked  thoughtfully  out  at  the  car- 
riage from  his  place  in  the  car.  He  had  begged  — 
very  hard  for  him  —  for  that  empty  seat. 

"Of  what  is  it  a  sign,"  he  asked,  "when  a  woman 
seeks  solitude?" 

Lady  Peggy  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Wilhelmina  is  tired  of  us  all,  I  suppose,"  she 
remarked.  "She  gets  like  that  sometimes." 

"Then  of  what  is  it  a  sign,"  he  persisted,  "when 
a  woman  tires  of  people  —  like  us?" 

Lady  Peggy  yawned. 

"In  a  woman  of  more  primitive  instincts,"  she 


64  THE  MISSIONER 

said,  "it  would  mean  an  affair.  But  Wilhelmina 
has  outgrown  all  that.  She  is  the  only  woman  of  our 
acquaintance  of  whom  one  would  dare  to  say  it,  but 
I  honestly  believe  that  to  Wilhelmina  men  are  like 
puppets.  Was  she  born,  I  wonder,  with  ice  in  her 
veins?" 

"One  wonders,"  Deyes  remarked  softly.  "A 
woman  like  that  is  always  something  of  a  mystery. 
By  the  bye,  wasn't  there  a  whisper  of  something  the 
year  she  lived  in  Florence?" 

"People  have  talked  of  her,  of  course,"  Lady 
Peggy  answered.  "In  Florence,  a  woman  without 
a  lover  is  like  a  child  without  toys.  To  be  virtuous 
there  is  the  one  offence  which  Society  does  not 
pardon." 

"I  believe,"  Deyes  said,  "that  a  lover  would 
bore  Wilhelmina  terribly." 

"Why  the  dickens  doesn't  she  marry  Leslie?" 
Austin  asked,  opening  his  eyes  for  a  moment. 

"Too  obvious,"  Deyes  murmured.  "Some  day  I 
can't  help  fancying  that  she  will  give  us  all  a  shock." 

A  mile  or  more  behind,  the  lady  with  ice  in  her 
veins,  leaned  back  amongst  the  cushions  of  her  car- 
riage, drinking  in,  with  a  keenness  of  appreciation 
which  surprised  even  herself,  the  beauties  of  the 
still,  hot  night.  The  moon  was  as  yet  barely  risen. 
In  the  half  light,  the  country  and  the  hills  beyond, 
with  their  tumbled  masses  of  rock,  seemed  unreal  — 
of  strange  and  mysterious  outline.  More  than  any- 
thing, she  was  conscious  of  a  sense  of  softness. 
The  angles  were  gone  from  all  the  crude  places,  it 
was  peace  itself  which  had  settled  upon  the  land. 
Peace,  and  a  wonderful  silence!  The  birds  had  long 


AN  UNDERNOTE  OF  MUSIC  65 

ago  ceased  to  sing,  no  breath  of  wind  was  abroad  to 
stir  the  leaves  of  the  trees.  All  the  cheerful  chorus 
of  country  sounds  which  make  music  throughout 
the  long  summer  day  had  ceased.  Once,  when  a 
watch-dog  barked  in  the  valley  far  below,  she  started. 
The  sound  seemed  unreal  —  as  though,  indeed,  it 
came  from  a  different  world! 

The  woman  in  the  carriage  looked  out  with  steady 
tireless  eyes  upon  this  visionary  land.  The  breath 
of  the  honeysuckle  and  the  pleasant  odour  of  warm 
hay  seemed  to  give  life  to  the  sensuous  joy  of  the 
wonderful  night.  She  herself  was  a  strange  being 
to  be  abroad  in  these  quiet  lanes.  Her  only  wrap 
was  a  long  robe  of  filmy  lace,  which  she  had  thrown 
back,  so  that  her  shoulders  and  neck,  with  its  collar 
of  lustrous  pearls,  were  bare  to  the  faint  breeze, 
which  only  their  own  progress  made.  Her  gleaming 
dress  of  white  satin,  undecorated,  unadorned,  fell 
in  delicate  lines  about  her  limbs.  No  wonder  that 
the  only  person  whom  they  passed,  a  belated  farmer, 
rubbed  his  eyes  and  stared  at  her  as  at  a  ghost! 

It  seemed  to  her  that  something  of  the  confusion 
of  this  delightful,  half-seen  world,  had  stolen,  too, 
into  her  thoughts.  All  day  long  she  had  been  con- 
scious of  it.  There  was  something  alien  there, 
something  wholly  unrecognizable.  She  felt  a  new 
light  falling  upon  her  life.  From  where?  She 
could  not  tell.  Only  she  knew  that  its  pitiless 
routine,  its  littleness,  its  frantic  struggle  for  the 
front  place  in  the  great  pleasure-house,  seemed  sud- 
denly to  stand  revealed  in  pitiful  colours.  Surely 
it  belonged  to  some  other  woman!  It  could  not 
be  she  who  did  those  things  and  called  them  life. 


66  THE  MISSIONER 

She,  who  scarcely  knew  what  nerves  were,  was  sud- 
denly afraid.  Some  change  was  coming  upon  her; 
she  felt  herself  caught  in  a  silent,  swift-flowing 
current.  She  was  being  carried  away,  and  she  had 
not  strength  to  resist.  And  all  the  time  there  was 
an  undernote  of  music.  That  was  what  made  it 
so  strange.  The  light  that  was  falling  was  like 
summer  rain  upon  the  bare,  dry  places.  She  was 
conscious  of  a  new  vitality,  a  new  life,  and  she  feared 
it.  Fancy  being  endowed  with  a  new  sense,  in  the 
midst  of  an  ordinary  work-a-day  existence!  She 
felt  like  that.  It  was  unbelievable,  and  yet  its 
tumult  was  stirring  in  her  heart,  was  rushing  through 
her  veins.  Often  before,  her  tired  eyes  had  rested 
unmoved  upon  a  country  as  beautiful  as  this,  even 
the  mystery  of  this  half  light  was  no  new  thing. 
To-night  she  saw  farther  —  she  felt  the  throbbing, 
half-mad  delight  of  the  wanderer  in  the  enchanted 
land,  the  pilgrim  who  hears  suddenly  the  Angelus 
bell  from  the  shrine  he  has  journeyed  so  far  to  visit. 
What  it  meant  she  could  not,  she  dared  not  ask  her- 
self. She  was  content  to  sit  there,  her  eyes  wide 
open  now,  the  tired  lines  smoothed  from  her  fore- 
head, her  face  like  the  face  of  an  eager  and  beauti- 
ful child.  No  one  of  her  world  would  have  recog- 
nized her,  as  she  travelled  that  night  through  the 
perfumed  lanes. 

It  was  when  they  were  within  a  mile  or  two  of 
home  that  an  awakening  came.  They  had  turned 
into  a  lonely  lane  leading  to  one  of  the  back  en- 
trances to  Thorpe,  and  were  climbing  a  somewhat 
steep  hill.  Suddenly  the  horses  plunged  and  almost 
stopped.  She  leaned  forward. 


AN  UNDERNOTE  OF  MUSIC  67 

"What  is  it,  Johnson?"  she  asked. 

The  man  touched  his  hat. 

"The  'osses  shied,  madam,  at  the  light  in  the  trees 
there.  Enough  to  frighten  'em,  too." 

Her  eyes  followed  his  pointing  finger.  A  few 
yards  back  from  the  roadside,  a  small,  steady  light 
was  burning  amongst  the  trees. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  quickly. 

"I  can't  say,  madam,"  the  man  answered.  "It 
looks  like  a  lantern  or  a  candle,  or  something  of  that 
sort." 

"There  is  no  cottage  there?"  she  asked. 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

"There's  none  nearer  than  the  first  lodge,  madam," 
he  answered.  "There's  a  bit  of  a  shelter  there  — 
Higgs,  the  keeper,  built  it  for  a  watchman." 

"Can  I  take  care  of  the  horses  for  a  moment, 
while  you  go  and  see  what  it  is?"  she  asked. 

"They  take  a  bit  of  holding,  madam,"  the  man 
answered  doubtfully.  "We  got  your  message  so  late 
at  the  stables,  or  I  should  have  had  a  second  man." 

Wilhelmina  stepped  softly  out  into  the  road. 

"I  will  go  myself,"  she  said.  "I  daresay  it  is 
nothing.  If  I  call,  though,  you  must  leave  the 
horses  and  come  to  me." 

She  opened  the  gate,  and  raising  her  skirts  with 
both  hands,  stepped  into  the  plantation.  Her  small, 
white-shod  feet  fell  noiselessly  upon  the  thick  under- 
growth; she  reached  the  entrance  of  the  shelter 
without  making  any  sound.  Cautiously  she  peeped 
in.  Her  eyes  grew  round  with  surprise,  her  bosom 
began  rapidly  to  rise  and  fall.  It  was  Macheson 
who  lay  there,  fast  asleep!  He  had  fallen  asleep 


68  THE  MISSIONER 

evidently  whilst  reading.  A  book  was  lying  by  his 
side,  and  a  covered  lantern  was  burning  by  his  left 
shoulder.  He  was  dressed  in  trousers  and  shirt;  the 
latter  was  open  at  the  throat,  showing  its  outline 
firm  and  white,  and  his  regular  breathing.  She 
drew  a  step  nearer,  and  leaned  over  him.  Curiously 
enough,  in  sleep  the  boyishness  of  his  face  was  less 
apparent.  The  straight,  firm  mouth,  rigidly  closed, 
was  the  mouth  of  a  man;  his  limbs,  in  repose,  seemed 
heavy,  even  massive,  especially  the  bare  arm  upon 
which  his  head  was  resting.  His  shirt  was  old,  but 
spotlessly  clean;  his  socks  were  neatly  darned  in 
many  places.  He  occupied  nearly  the  whole  of 
the  shelter,  in  fact  one  foot  was  protruding  through 
the  opening.  In  the  corner  a  looking-glass  was 
hanging  from  a  stick,  and  a  few  simple  toilet  articles 
were  spread  upon  the  ground. 

She  bent  more  closely  over  him,  holding  her 
breath,  although  he  showed  no  signs  of  waking. 
Her  senses  were  in  confusion,  and  there  was  a  mist 
before  her  eyes.  An  unaccountable  impulse  was 
urging  her  on,  driving  her,  as  it  seemed,  into  in- 
credible folly.  Lower  and  lower  she  bent,  till  her 
hot  breath  fell  almost  upon  his  cheek.  Suddenly 
he  stirred.  She  started  back.  After  all  he  did  not 
open  his  eyes,  but  the  moment  was  gone.  She 
moved  backwards  towards  the  opening.  She  was 
seized  now  with  sudden  fright.  She  desired  to 
escape.  She  was  breathless  with  fear,  the  fear  of 
what  she  might  not  have  escaped.  Yet  in  the 
midst  of  it,  with  hot  trembling  fingers  she  loosened 
the  roses  from  her  dress  and  dropped  them  by  his 
side.  Then  she  fled  into  the  semi-darkness. 


AN  UNDERNOTE  OF  MUSIC  69 

The  habits  of  a  lifetime  die  hard.  They  are 
proof,  as  a  rule,  against  these  fits  of  temporary 
madness. 

Wilhelmina  stepped  languidly  into  her  carriage, 
and  commanded  her  coachman's  attention. 

"Johnson,"  she  said,  "I  found  a  poor  man  sleep- 
ing there.  There  is  no  necessity  for  him  to  be  dis- 
turbed. It  is  my  wish  that  you  do  not  mention 
the  occurrence  to  any  one  —  to  any  one  at  all.  You 
understand?" 

The  man  touched  his  hat.  He  would  have  been 
dull-witted,  indeed,  if  he  had  not  appreciated  the 
note  of  finality  in  his  mistress'  tone.  His  horses 
sprang  forward,  and  a  few  minutes  later  turned 
into  the  dark  avenue  which  led  to  the  house. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ROSES 

MACHESON  woke    with    the  daylight,  stiff,   a 
little  tired,  and  haunted  with  the  conscious- 
ness of  disturbing  dreams.     He  sprang  to  his  feet 
and  stretched  himself.     Then  he  saw  the  roses. 

For  a  moment  or  two  he  stared  at  them  incredu- 
lously.    Then    his    thoughts    flashed    backwards  - 
where  or  how  had  he  become  possessed  of  them?     A 
few  seconds  were  sufficient.     Some  one  had   been 
there  in  the  night  —  most  likely  a  woman. 

His  cheeks  burned  at  the  thought.  He  stooped 
and  took  them  hesitatingly,  reverently,  into  his 
hand.  To  him  they  represented  part  of  the  mys- 
tery of  life,  the  mystery  of  which  he  knew  so  little. 
Soft  and  fragrant,  the  touch  of  the  drooping  blossoms 
was  like  fire  to  his  fingers.  Had  he  been  like  those 
predecessors  of  his  in  the  days  of  the  Puritans,  he 
would  have  cast  them  away,  trampled  them  under- 
foot; he  would  have  seen  in  them  only  the  snare 
of  the  Evil  One.  But  to  Macheson  this  would  have 
seemed  almost  like  sacrilege.  They  were  beautiful 
and  he  loved  beautiful  things. 

He  made  his  way  farther  into  the  plantation,  to 
where  the  trees,  suddenly  opening,  disclosed  a  small, 


ROSES  71 

disused  slate  quarry,  the  water  in  which  was  kept 
fresh  by  many  streams.  Stripping  off  his  clothes, 
he  plunged  into  the  deep  cool  depths,  swimming 
round  for  several  minutes  on  his  back,  his  face 
upturned  to  the  dim  blue  sky.  Then  he  dressed  — 
in  the  ugly  black  suit,  for  it  was  Sunday,  and  made 
a  frugal  breakfast,  boiling  the  water  for  his  coffee 
over  a  small  spirit-lamp.  And  all  the  time  he 
kept  looking  at  the  roses,  now  fresh  with  the  water 
which  he  had  carefully  sprinkled  over  them.  Their 
coming  seemed  to  him  to  whisper  of  beautiful  things, 
they  turned  his  thoughts  so  easily  into  that  world 
of  poetry  and  sentiment  in  which  he  was  a  habitual 
wanderer.  Yet,  every  now  and  then,  their  direct 
significance  startled,  almost  alarmed.  Some  one 
had  actually  been  in  the  place  while  he  slept,  and 
had  retreated  without  disturbing  him.  Roses  do 
not  drop  from  the  sky,  and  of  gardens  there  were 
none  close  at  hand.  Was  it  one  of  the  village  girls, 
who  had  seen  him  that  afternoon?  His  cheeks 
reddened  at  the  thought.  Perhaps  he  had  better 
leave  his  shelter.  Another  time  if  she  came  she 
might  not  steal  away  so  quietly.  Scandal  would 
injure  his  work.  He  must  run  no  risks.  Deep 
down  in  his  heart  he  thrust  that  other,  that  impossi- 
bly sweet  thought.  He  would  not  suffer  his  mind 
to  dwell  upon  it. 

After  breakfast  he  walked  for  an  hour  or  so  across 
the  hills,  watching  the  early  mists  roll  away  in  the 
valleys,  and  the  sunlight  settle  down  upon  the  land. 
It  was  a  morning  of  silence,  this  —  that  peculiar, 
mysterious  silence  which  only  the  first  day  of  the 
week  seems  to  bring.  The  fields  were  empty  of 


72  THE  MISSIONER 

toilers,  the  harvest  was  stayed.  From  its  far-away 
nest  amongst  the  hills,  he  could  just  hear,  carried  on 
the  bosom  of  a  favouring  breeze,  the  single  note  of  a 
monastery  bell,  whose  harshness  not  even  distance, 
or  its  pleasant  journey  across  the  open  country, 
could  modify.  Macheson  listened  to  it  for  a  moment, 
and  sat  down  upon  a  rock  on  the  topmost  pinnacle  of 
the  hills  he  was  climbing. 

Below  him,  the  country  stretched  like  a  piece  of 
brilliant  patchwork.  Thorpe,  with  its  many  chim- 
neys and  stately  avenues,  and  the  village  hidden 
by  a  grove  of  elms,  was  like  a  cool  oasis  in  the  midst 
of  the  landscape.  Behind,  the  hills  ran  rockier  and 
wilder,  culminating  in  a  bleak  stretch  of  country, 
in  the  middle  of  which  was  the  monastery.  Mache- 
son looked  downwards  at  Thorpe,  with  the  faint 
clang  of  that  single  bell  in  his  ears.  The  frown  on  his 
forehead  deepened  as  the  rush  of  thoughts  took 
insistent  hold  of  him. 

For  a  young  man  blessed  with  vigorous  health, 
free  from  all  material  anxieties,  and  with  the  world 
before  him,  Macheson  found  life  an  uncommonly 
serious  matter.  Only  a  few  years  ago,  he  had  left 
the  University  with  a  brilliant  degree,  a  splendid 
athletic  record,  and  a  host  of  friends.  What  to  do 
with  his  life!  That  was  the  problem  which  press- 
ingly  confronted  him.  He  recognized  in  himself 
certain  gifts  inevitably  to  be  considered  in  this 
choice.  He  was  possessed  of  a  deep  religious  sense, 
an  immense  sympathy  for  his  fellows,  and  a  passion 
for  the  beautiful  in  life,  from  which  the  physical 
side  was  by  no  means  absent. 

How  to  find  a  career  which  would  satisfy  such 


ROSES  73 

varying  qualities!  A  life  of  pleasure,  unless  it  were 
shared  by  his  fellows,  did  not  appeal  to  him  at  all; 
personal  ambition  he  was  destitute  of;  his  religion, 
he  was  very  well  aware,  was  not  the  sort  which  would 
enable  him  to  enter  with  any  prospect  of  happiness 
any  of  the  established  churches.  For  a  time  he  had 
travelled,  and  had  come  back  with  only  one  definite 
idea  in  his  mind.  Chance  had  brought  him,  on  his 
return,  into  contact  with  two  young  men  of  some- 
what similar  tastes.  A  conversation  between  them 
one  night  had  given  a  certain  definiteness  to  his 
aims.  He  recalled  it  to  himself  as  he  sat  looking 
down  at  the  thin  blue  line  of  smoke  rising  from  the 
chimneys  of  Thorpe. 

"To  use  one's  life  for  others,"  he  had  repeated 
thoughtfully  —  it  was  the  enthusiast  of  the  party 
who  had  spoken  —  "but  how?" 

"  Teach  them  to  avoid  like  filth  the  ugly  things  of 
life  —  help  them  in  their  search  for  the  things  beau- 
tiful." 

"What  are  the  things  beautiful?"  he  had  asked. 
"Don't  they  mean  something  different  to  every 
man?" 

Holderness  had  lifted  his  beautiful  head  —  the 
boy  with  whom  he  had  played  at  school — the  friend 
of  his  younger  life. 

"The  Christian  morality,"  he  had  answered. 

Macheson   had   been  surprised. 

"But  you "  he  said,  "you  don't  believe 

anything." 

"It  is  not  necessary,"  Holderness  had  answered. 
"It  is  a  matter  of  the  intelligence.  As  an  artist, 
if  I  might  dare  to  call  myself  one,  I  say  that  the 


74  THE  MISSIONER 

Christian  life,  if  honestly  lived,  is  the  most  beautiful 
thing  of  all  the  ages." 

Macheson  walked  down  to  the  village  with  the 
memory  of  those  words  still  in  his  brain.  The  bell 
was  ringing  for  service  from  the  queer,  ivy-covered 
church,  the  villagers  were  coming  down  the  lane  in 
little  groups.  Macheson  found  himself  one  of  a 
small  knot  of  people,  who  stood  reverently  on  one 
side,  with  doffed  hats,  just  by  the  wooden  porch. 
He  looked  up,  suddenly  realizing  the  cause. 

A  small  vehicle,  something  between  a  bath-chair 
and  a  miniature  carriage,  drawn  by  a  fat,  sleek 
pony,  was  turning  into  the  lane  from  one  of  the 
splendid  avenues  which  led  to  the  house.  A  boy 
led  the  pony,  a  footman  marched  behind.  Wilhel- 
mina,  in  a  plain  white  muslin  dress  and  a  black  hat, 
was  slowly  preparing  to  descend.  She  smiled 
languidly,  but  pleasantly  enough,  at  the  line  of 
curtseying  women  and  men  with  doffed  hats.  The 
note  of  feudalism  which  their  almost  reverential 
attitudes  suggested  appealed  irresistibly  to  Mache- 
son's  sense  of  humour.  He,  too,  formed  one  of 
them;  he,  too,  doffed  his  hat.  His  greeting,  how- 
ever, was  different.  Her  eyes  swept  by  him  unsee- 
ing, his  pleasant  "  Good  morning  "  was  unheeded. 
She  even  touched  her  skirt  with  her  fingers,  as 
though  afraid  lest  it  might  brush  against  him  in 
passing.  With  tired,  graceful  footsteps,  she  passed 
into  the  cool  church,  leaving  him  to  admire  against 
his  will  the  slim  perfection  of  her  figure,  the  wonder- 
ful carriage  of  her  small  but  perfect  head. 

He  followed  with  the  others  presently,  and  found 
a  single  seat  close  to  the  door.  The  service  began 


ROSES  75 

almost  at  once,  a  very  beautiful  service  in  its  way, 
for  the  organ,  a  present  from  the  lady  of  the  manor, 
was  perfectly  played,  and  the  preacher's  voice  was 
clear  and  as  sweet  as  a  boy's.  Macheson,  however, 
was  nervous  and  ill  at  ease.  From  the  open  door 
he  heard  the  soft  whispering  of  the  west  wind  —  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life  he  found  the  simple  but 
dignified  ritual  unconvincing.  He  was  haunted  by 
the  sense  of  some  impending  disaster.  When  the 
prayers  came,  he  fell  on  his  knees  and  remained  there! 
Even  then  he  could  not  collect  himself!  He  was 
praying  to  an  unknown  God  for  protection  against 
some  nameless  evil!  He  knew  quite  well  that  the 
words  he  muttered  were  vain  words.  Through  the 
stained  glass  windows,  the  sunlight  fell  in  a  subdued 
golden  stream  upon  the  glowing  hair,  the  gracefully 
bent  head  of  the  woman  who  sat  alone  in  the  deep 
square  pew.  She,  too,  seemed  to  be  praying. 
Macheson  got  up  and  softly,  but  abruptly,  stole  from 
the  church. 

Up  into  the  hills,  as  far  away,  as  high  up  as  pos- 
sible! A  day  of  sabbath  calm,  this!  Macheson, 
with  the  fire  in  his  veins  and  a  sharp  pain  in  his  side, 
climbed  as  a  man  possessed.  He,  too,  was  fleeing 
from  the  unknown.  He  wras  many  miles  away  when 
down  in  the  valley  at  Thorpe  some  one  spoke  of  him. 

"By  the  bye,"  Gilbert  Deyes  remarked,  looking 
across  the  luncheon  table  at  his  hostess,  "when 
does  this  athletic  young  missioner  of  yours  begin  his 
work  of  regeneration?" 

Wilhelmina  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"To-morrow  evening,  I  believe,"  she  answered. 
"He  is  going  to  speak  at  the  cross-roads.  I  fancy 


76  THE  MISSIONER 

that  his  audience  will  consist  chiefly  of  the  children, 
and  Mrs.  Adnith's  chickens." 

" Can't  understand,"  Austin  remarked,  "why  a 
chap  who  can  play  cricket  like  that  —  he  did  lay  on 
to  'em,  too  —  can  be  such  a  crank!" 

"He  is  very  young,"  Wilhelmina  remarked  com- 
posedly, "and  I  fancy  that  he  must  be  a  little  mad. 
I  hope  that  Thorpe  will  teach  him  a  lesson.  He  needs 
it." 

"You  do  not  anticipate  then,"  Deyes  remarked, 
"that  his  labours  here  will  be  crowned  with  suc- 
cess?" 

"He  won't  get  a  soul  to  hear  him,"  Stephen  Hurd 
replied  confidently.  "The  villagers  all  know  what 
Miss  Thorpe-Hatton  thinks  of  his  coming  here.  It 
will  be  quite  sufficient." 

Wilhelmina  lit  a  cigarette  and  rose  to  her  feet. 

"Let  us  hope  so,"  she  remarked  drily.  "Please 
remember,  all  of  you,  that  this  is  the  Palace  of 
Ease!  Do  exactly  what  you  like,  all  of  you,  till 
five  o'clock.  I  shall  be  ready  for  bridge  then." 

Lady  Peggy  rose  briskly. 

"No  doubt  about  what  I  shall  do,"  she  remarked. 
"I'm  going  to  bed." 

Dey:v,  smiled. 

"I,"  he  said,  "shall  spend  the  afternoon  in  the 
rose  garden.  I  need  —  development." 

Wilhelmina  looked  at  him  questioningly. 

"Please  don't  be  inexplicable,"  she  begged. 
"It  is  too  hot." 

"Roses  and  sentiment,"  he  declared,  "are  sup- 
posed to  go  together.  I  want  to  grow  into  accord 
with  my  surroundings." 


ROSES 


77 


Wilhelmina  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"If  you  have  found  sentiment  here,  she  said 
carelessly,  "you  must  have  dug  deep." 

"On  the  contrary,"  he  answered,  "I  have  scarcely 
scratched  the  surface!" 

Stephen  Hurd  looked  uneasily  from  Deyes  to  his 
hostess.  Never  altogether  comfortable,  although 
eager  to  accept  the  most  casually  offered  invitation 
to  Thorpe,  he  had  always  the  idea  that  the  most 
commonplace  remark  contained  an  innuendo  pur- 
posely concealed  from  him. 

"Mr.  Deyes,"  he  remarked,  "looks  mysterious." 

Deyes  glanced  at  him  through  his  eyeglass. 

"It  is  a  subtle  neighbourhood,"  he  said.  "By 
the  bye,  Mr.  Hurd,  have  you  ever  seen  the  rose 
gardens  at  Carrow?" 

"Never,"  Hurd  replied  enviously.  "I  have  heard 
that  they  are  very  beautiful." 

Wilhelmina  passed  out. 

"The  gardens  are  beautiful,"  she  said,  looking 
back,  "but  the  roses  are  like  all  other  roses,  they 
fade  quickly.  Till  five  o'clock,  all  of  you!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

SUMMER  LIGHTNING 

STEPHEN  KURD  walked  into  the  room  which 
he  and  his  father  shared  as  a  sanctum,  half 
office,  half  study.  Mr.  Hurd,  senior,  was  attired  in 
his  conventional  Sabbath  garb,  the  same  black  coat 
of  hard,  dull  material,  and  dark  grey  trousers,  in 
which  he  had  attended  church  for  more  years  than 
many  of  the  villagers  could  remember.  Stephen, 
on  the  other  hand,  was  attired  in  evening  clothes  of 
the  latest  cut.  His  white  waistcoat  had  come  from 
a  London  tailor,  and  his  white  tie  had  cost  him  con- 
siderable pains.  His  father  looked  him  over  with 
expressionless  face. 

"You  are  going  to  the  House  again,  Stephen?" 
he  asked  calmly. 

"I  am  asked  to  dine  there,  father,"  he  answered. 
"  Sorry  to  leave  you  alone." 

"I  have  no  objection  to  being  alone,"  Mr.  Hurd 
answered.  "I  think  that  you  know  that.  You 
lunched  there,  didn't  you?" 

Stephen  nodded. 

"Miss  Thorpe-Hatton  asked  me  as  we  came  out 
of  church,"  he  answered. 

"You  play  cards?" 


SUMMER  LIGHTNING  79 

The  directness  of  the  question  allowed  of  no  eva- 
sion. Stephen  flushed  as  he  answered. 

"They  play  bridge.  I  may  be  asked  to  join.  It  — 
is  a  sort  of  whist,  you  know." 

"So  I  understand/'  the  older  man  remarked. 
"I  have  no  remark  to  make  concerning  that.  Man- 
ners change,  I  suppose,  with  the  generations.  You 
are  young  and  I  am  old.  I  have  never  sought  to 
impose  my  prejudices  upon  you.  You  have  seen 
more  of  the  world  than  I  ever  did.  Perhaps  you 
have  found  wisdom  there." 

Stephen  was  not  at  his  ease. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,  sir,"  he  answered. 
"Of  course,  Sunday  isn't  kept  so  strictly  as  it  used 
to  be.  I  like  a  quiet  day  myself,  but  it's  pretty  dull 
here  usually,  and  I  didn't  think  it  would  be  wise 
to  refuse  an  invitation  from  Miss  Thorpe-Hatton." 

"Perhaps  not,"  Mr.  Hurd  answered.  "On  the 
other  hand,  I  might  remind  you  that  during  the 
forty  years  during  which  I  have  been  agent  to  this 
estate  I  have  never  accepted  —  beyond  a  glass  of 
wine  —  the  hospitality  offered  to  me  by  Miss  Thorpe- 
Hatton's  father  and  grandfather,  and  by  the  young 
lady  herself.  It  is  not  according  to  my  idea  of  the 
fitness  of  things.  I  am  a  servant  of  the  owner  of 
these  estates.  I  prefer  to  discharge  my  duties 
honestly  and  capably  —  as  a  servant." 

Stephen  frowned  at  his  reflection  in  the  glass.  He 
did  not  feel  in  the  least  like  a  servant. 

"That's  rather  an  old-fashioned  view,  dad,"  he 
declared. 

"It  may  be,"  his  father  answered.  "In  any 
case,  I  do  not  seek  to  impose  it  upon  you.  You  are 


80  THE  MISSIONER 

free  to  come  and  go  according  to  your  judgment. 
But  you  are  young,  and  I  cannot  see  you  expose 
yourself  to  trouble  without  some  warning.  Miss 
Thorpe-Hatton  is  not  a  lady  whom  it  is  wise  for  you 
to  see  too  much  of." 

The  directness  of  this  speech  took  the  young  man 
aback. 

"I — she  seems  very  pleasant  and  gracious,"  he 
faltered. 

"Not  even  to  you,"  his  father  continued  gravely, 
"can  I  betray  the  knowledge  of  such  things  as  have 
come  under  my  notice  as  the  servant  of  these  estates 
and  this  young  lady.  Her  father  was  a  fine,  self- 
respecting  gentleman,  as  all  the  Thorpe-Hattons 
have  been;  her  mother  came  from  a  noble,  but 
degenerate,  French  family.  I,  who  live  here  a  life 
without  change,  who  mark  time  for  the  years  and 
watch  the  striplings  become  old  men,  see  many 
things,  and  see  them  truthfully.  The  evil  seed  of 
her  mother's  family  is  in  this  young  woman's  blood. 
She  lives  without  a  chaperon,  without  compan- 
ionship, as  she  pleases  —  and  to  please  herself 
only." 

Stephen  frowned  irritably.  His  father's  cold, 
measured  words  were  like  drops  of  ice. 

"But,  father,"  he  protested,  "she  is  a  leader  of 
Society,  she  goes  to  Court  and  you  see  her  name  at 
the  very  best  places.  If  there  was  anything  wrong 
about  her,  she  wouldn't  be  received  like  that." 

"I  know  nothing  about  Society  or  its  require- 
ments," his  father  answered.  "She  has  brains  and 
wealth,  and  she  is  a  woman.  Therefore,  I  suppose 
the  world  is  on  her  side.  I  have  said  all  that  I  wish 


SUMMER  LIGHTNING  81 

to  say.     You  can  perhaps  conjecture  the  reason  of 
my  speaking  at  all." 

"She  wouldn't  take  the  trouble  to  make  a  fool  of 
me,"  Stephen  answered  bitterly.  "I  just  happen 
to  make  up  a  number,  that's  all." 

"I  am  glad  that  you  understand  the  young  lady 
so  well,"  his  father  answered.  "Before  you  go,  will 
you  be  good  enough  to  pass  me  the  Bible  and  my 
spectacles,  and  let  Mary  know  that  Mr.  Stuart  will 
be  in  to  supper  with  me." 

Stephen  obeyed  in  silence.  He  remembered  the 
time,  not  so  long  ago,  when  he  would  have  been 
required  to  seat  himself  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
fireplace,  with  a  smaller  Bible  in  his  hand,  and  read 
word  for  word  with  his  father.  His  mind  went  back 
to  those  days  as  he  walked  slowly  up  the  great  grass- 
grown  avenue  to  the  house,  picking  his  steps  care- 
fully, lest  he  should  mar  the  brilliancy  of  his  well- 
polished  patent-leather  boots.  He  compared  that 
old  time  curiously  with  the  evening  which  was  now 
before  him;  the  round  table  drawn  into  the  midst 
of  the  splendid  dining-room,  an  oasis  of  exquisitely 
shaded  light  and  colour;  Lady  Peggy  writh  her  dar- 
ing toilette  and  beautiful  white  shoulders;  Deyes 
with  his  world-worn  face  and  flippant  tongue;  the 
mistress  of  Thorpe  herself,  more  subdued,  perhaps, 
in  dress  and  speech,  and  yet  with  the  ever-present 
mystery  of  eyes  and  lips  wherein  was  always  the 
fascination  of  the  unknown.  More  than  ever  that 
night  Stephen  Hurd  felt  himself  to  be  her  helpless, 
slave.  All  his  former  amours  seemed  suddenly 
empty  and  vulgar  things.  She  came  late  into  the 
drawing-room,  her  greeting  was  as  carelessly  kind 


82  THE  MISSIONER 

as  usual,  there  was  no  perceptible  difference  in  her 
manner  of  speech.  Yet  his  observation  of  her  was 
so  intense  that  he  found  readily  the  signs  of  some 
subtle,  indefinable  change,  a  change  which  began 
with  her  toilette,  and  ended  —  ah !  as  yet  there  was 
no  ending.  Her  gown  of  soft  white  silk  was  daring 
as  a  French  modiste  could  make  it,  but  its  simplicity 
was  almost  nun-like.  She  wore  a  string  of  pearls,  no 
earrings,  no  rings,  and  her  hair  was  arranged  low 
down,  almost  like  a  schoolgirl's.  She  had  more 
colour  than  usual,  a  temporary  restlessness  seemed 
to  have  taken  the  place  of  her  customary  easy 
languor.  What  did  it  mean?  he  asked  himself 
breathlessly.  Was  it  Deyes?  Impossible,  for  Deyes 
himself  was  a  watcher,  a  thin  smile  parting  some- 
times the  close  set  lips  of  his  white,  mask-like  face. 
After  all,  how  hopelessly  at  sea  he  was!  He  knew 
nothing  of  her  life,  of  which  these  few  days  atThorpe 
were  merely  an  interlude.  She  might  have  lovers 
by  the  score  of  whom  he  knew  nothing.  He  was 
vain,  but  he  was  not  wholly  a  fool. 

She  talked  more  than  usual  at  dinner-time,  but 
afterwards  she  spoke  of  a  headache,  and  sat  on  the 
window-seat  of  the  library,  a  cigarette  between  her 
lips,  her  eyes  half  closed.  When  the  bridge  table 
was  laid  out,  she  turned  her  head  languidly. 

"I  will  come  in  in  the  next  rubber,"  she  said. 
"You  four  can  start." 

They  obeyed  her,  of  course,  but  Lady  Peggy 
shrugged  her  shoulders  slightly.  She  had  no  fancy 
for  Stephen's  bridge,  and  they  cut  together.  Wilhel- 
mina  waited  until  the  soft  fall  of  the  cards  had 
ceased,  and  the  hands  were  being  examined. 


SUMMER  LIGHTNING 

Then,  with  a  graceful  movement,  she  slipped  out 
of  the  window  and  away  into  the  shadows.  No 
signs  of  her  headache  were  left.  She  passed  swiftly 
along  a  narrow  path,  bordered  by  gigantic  shrubs, 
until  she  reached  a  small  iron  gate.  Here  for  the 
first  time  she  paused. 

For  several  moments  she  listened.  There  was  no 
sound  from  the  great  house,  whose  outline  she  could 
barely  see  but  whose  long  row  of  lights  stretched 
out  behind  her.  She  turned  her  head  and  looked 
along  the  grass-grown  lane  beyond  the  gate.  There 
was  no  one  in  sight  —  no  sound.  She  lifted  the 
latch  and  passed  through. 

For  a  summer  night  it  was  unusually  dark.  All 
day  the  heat  had  been  almost  tropical,  and  now  the 
sky  was  clouded  over,  and  a  south  wind,  dry  and 
unrefreshing,  was  moving  against  the  tall  elms. 
Every  few  seconds  the  heavens  were  ablaze  with 
summer  lightning;  once  the  breathless  silence 
was  broken  by  a  low  rumble  of  distant  thun- 
der. 

She  reached  the  end  of  the  lane.  Before  her, 
another  gate  led  out  on  to  a  grass-covered  hill, 
strewn  with  fragments  of  rocks.  She  paused  for  a 
moment  and  looked  backwards.  She  was  suddenly 
conscious  that  her  heart  was  beating  fast;  the 
piquant  sense  of  adventure  with  which  she  had 
started  had  given  place  to  a  rarer  and  more  exciting 
turmoil  of  the  senses.  Her  breath  was  coming 
short,  as  though  she  had  been  running. 

The  silence  seemed  more  complete  than  ever.  She 
lifted  her  foot  and  felt  the  white  satin  slipper.  It 
was  perfectly  dry,  there  was  no  dew,  and  as  yet  no 


84  THE  MISSIONER 

rain  had  fallen.     She  lifted  the  latch  of  the  gate 
and  passed  through. 

The  footpath  skirted  the  side  of  a  plantation,  and 
she  followed  it  closely,  keeping  under  the  shelter  of 
the  hedge.  Every  now  arid  then  a  rabbit  started 
up  almost  from  under  her  feet,  and  rushed  into  the 
hedge.  The  spinney  itself  seemed  alive  with  birds 
and  animals,  startled  by  her  light  footsteps  in  the 
shelter  which  they  had  sought,  disturbed  too  by 
their  instinct  of  the  coming  storm.  Her  footsteps 
grew  swifter.  She  was  committed  now  to  her 
enterprise,  vague  though  it  had  seemed  to  her. 
She  passed  through  a  second  gate  into  a  ragged 
wood,  and  along  a  winding  path  into  a  country 
road.  She  turned  slowly  up  the  hill.  Her  breath 
was  coming  faster  than  ever  now.  What  folly !  - 
transcendental !  —  exquisite !  Her  footsteps  grew 
slower.  She  kept  to  the  side  of  the  hedge,  raising 
her  skirts  a  little,  for  the  grass  was  long.  A  few 
yards  farther  was  the  gate.  The  soft  swish  of  her 
silken  draperies  as  she  stole  along,  became  a  clearly 
recognizable  sound  against  the  background  of  in- 
tense silence.  Macheson  had  been  leaning  against 
a  tree  just  inside.  He  opened  the  gate.  She  stepped 
almost  into  his  arms.  Her  white  face  was  suddenly 
illuminated  by  the  soft  blaze  of  summer  lightning 
which  poured  from  the  sky.  He  had  no  time  to 
move,  to  realize.  He  felt  her  hands  upon  his  cheek, 
his  face  drawn  downwards,  her  lips,  soft  and  burn- 
ing, pressed  against  his  for  one  long,  exquisite 
second.  And  then  —  the  darkness  once  more  and 
his  arms  were  empty. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  STILL  FIGUEE  IN  THE  CHAIR 

WITH  upraised  skirts,  and  feet  that  flashed  like 
silver  across  the  turf  and  amongst  the 
bracken,  Wilhelmina  flew  homewards.  Once  more 
her  heart  was  like  the  heart  of  a  girl.  Her  breath 
came  in  little  sobs  mingled  with  laughter,  the 
ground  beneath  her  feet  was  buoyant  as  the  clouds. 
She  had  no  fear  of  being  pursued  —  least  of  anything 
in  the  world  did  she  desire  it.  The  passion  of  a 
woman  is  controlled  always  by  her  sentiment.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  that  breathless  episode  was  in 
itself  an  epic,  she  would  not  for  worlds  have  added 
to  it,  have  altered  it  in  any  shape  or  form.  A 
moment's  lingering  might  so  easily  have  spoilt 
everything.  Had  he  attempted  to  play  either  the 
prude  or  the  Lothario,  the  delicate  flavour  would 
have  passed  away  from  the  adventure,  which  had 
set  her  heart  beating  once  more,  and  sent  the  blood 
singing  so  sweetly  through  her  veins.  So  she  sped 
through  the  darkness,  leaving  fragments  of  lace 
upon  the  thorns,  like  some  beautiful  bird,  escaped 
from  long  captivity,  rushing  through  a  strange 
world. 

Before  she  reached  the  grounds  the  storm  came. 


86  THE  MISSIONER 

There  was  a  crash  of  thunder,  which  seemed  to  tear 
apart  the  heavens  above,  and  then  the  big  rain- 
drops began  to  fall  upon  her  bare  shoulders  and  her 
clothes  as  light  and  airy  as  butterfly's  wings.  She 
abandoned  herself  to  the  ruin  of  a  Paquin  gown 
without  a  thought  of  regret;  she  even  laughed 
softly  with  pleasure  as  she  lifted  her  burning  face 
to  the  cool  sweet  deluge,  and  lessened  her  pace  in 
the  avenue,  walking  with  her  hands  behind  her  and 
her  head  still  upraised.  It  was  a  wonderful  night, 
this.  She  had  found  something  of  her  lost  girl- 
hood. 

She  reached  the  house  at  last,  and  stole  through 
the  hall  like  a  truant  schoolgirl.  Her  shoes  were 
nothing  but  pulp;  her  dress  clung  to  her  limbs 
like  a  grey,  sea-soaked  bathing-costume;  every- 
where on  the  oak  floor  and  splendid  rugs  she  left  a 
trail  of  wet.  On  tiptoe  she  stole  up  the  stairs, 
looking  guiltily  around,  yet  with  demure  laughter 
in  her  glowing  eyes.  She  met  only  one  amazed 
servant,  whom  she  dispatched  at  once  for  her  own 
maid.  In  the  bath-room  she  began  to  strip  off 
her  clothes,  even  before  Hortense,  who  loved  her, 
could  effect  a  breathless  entrance. 

"Eh!  Madame,  Madame!"  the  girl  exclaimed, 
with  uplifted  hands. 

Wilhelmina  stopped  her,  laughing. 

"It's  all  right,  Hortense,"  she  exclaimed  gaily. 
"I  was  out  in  the  grounds,  and  got  caught  in  the 
storm.  Turn  on  the  hot  water  and  cut  these  laces 
—  so!" 

To  Hortense  the  affair  was  a  tragedy.  Her  mis- 
tress' indifference  could  not  lessen  it. 


THE  STILL  FIGURE  IN  THE  CHAIR      87 

" Madame,"  she  declared,  "the  gown  is  ruined  — 
a  divine  creation.  Madame  has  never  looked  so 
well  in  anything  else." 

"Then  I  am  glad  I  wore  it  to-night,"  was  the 
astonishing  reply.  "  Quick,  quick,  quick,  Hortense! 
Get  me  into  the  bath,  and  bring  me  some  wine  and 
biscuits.  I  am  hungry.  I  don't  think  I  could  have 
eaten  any  dinner." 

Hortense  worked  with  nimble  fingers,  but  her 
eyes  at  every  opportunity  were  studying  her  mis- 
tress' face.  Was  it  the  English  rain  which  could 
soften  and  beautify  like  this?  Madame  was  bril- 
liant—  and  so  young!  Such  a  colour!  Such  a 
fire  in  the  eyes !  Madame  laughed  as  she  thrust  her 
from  the  room. 

"The  wine,  Hortense,  and  the  biscuits  —  no  sand- 
wiches! I  die  of  hunger.  And  send  word  to  the 
library  that  I  have  been  caught  in  the  storm,  and 
must  change  my  clothes,  but  shall  be  down  pres- 
ently. So!" 


She  found  them,  an  hour  later,  just  finishing  a 
rubber.  Their  languid  post-mortem  upon  a  curi- 
ously played  hand  was  broken  off  upon  her  entrance. 
They  made  remarks  about  the  storm  and  her  ill- 
luck  —  had  she  been  far  from  shelter?  was  she 
not  terrified  by  the  lightning?  Lady  Peggy  re- 
membered her  gown.  Deyes  alone  was  silent.  She 
felt  him  watching  her  all  the  time,  taking  cold 
note  of  her  brilliant  colour,  the  softer  light  in  her 
eyes.  She  felt  that  he  saw  her  as  she  was  —  a 
woman  suddenly  set  free,  even  though  for  a  few 


88  THE  MISSIONER 

short  hours.  She  had  broken  away  from  them  all, 
and  she  gloried  in  it. 

She  played  bridge  later  —  brilliantly  as  usual,  and 
with  success.  Then  she  leaned  back  in  her  chair 
and  faced  them  all. 

"Dear  guests,"  she  murmured,  "you  remember 
the  condition,  the  only  condition  upon  which  we 
bestowed  our  company  upon  one  another  in  this 
benighted  place.  You  remember  it  was  agreed 
that  when  you  were  bored,  you  left  without  excuse 
or  any  foolish  apologies.  The  same  to  apply  to  your 
hostess." 

"My  dear  Wilhelmina,"  Lady  Peggy  exclaimed, 
"I  know  what  you're  going  to  say,  and  I  won't 
go!  I'm  not  due  anywhere  till  the  thirteenth.  I 
won't  be  stranded." 

Wittielmina  laughed. 

"You  foolish  woman!"  she  exclaimed.  "Who 
wants  you  to  go?  You  shall  be  chatelaine  —  play 
hostess  and  fill  the  place  if  you  like.  Only  you 
mustn't  have  Leslie  over  more  than  twice  a  week." 

"You  are  going  to  desert  us?"  Deyes  asked  coolly. 
,  "It  was  in  the  bond,  wasn't  it?"  she  answered. 
"  Peggy  will  look  after  you  all,  I  am  sure." 

"You  mean  that  you  are  going  away,  to  leave 
Thorpe?"  Stephen  Kurd  asked  abruptly. 

She  turned  her  head  10  look  at  him.  He  was 
sitting  a  little  outside  the  circle  —  an  attitude 
typical,  perhaps,  of  his  position  there.  The  change 
in  her  tone  was  slight  indeed,  but  it  was  suf- 
ficient. 

"I  am  thinking  of  it,"  she  answered.  "You, 
Gilbert,  and  Captain  Austin  can  find  some  men  to 


THE  STILL  FIGURE  IN  THE  CHAIR       89 

shoot,  no  doubt.  Ask  any  one  you  like.  Peggy  will 
see  about  some  women  for  you.  I  draw  the  line  at 
tha£  red-haired  Egremont  woman.  Anybody  else!" 

"This  is  a  blow,"  Deyes  remarked,  "but  it  was 
in  the  bond.  Nothing  will  move  me  from  here  till 
the  seventeenth —  unless  your  chef  should  leave. 
Do  we  meet  in  Marienbad?" 

"I  am  not  sure,"  Wilhelmina  answered,  playing 
idly  with  the  cards.  "I  feel  that  my  system  re- 
quires something  more  soothing." 

"I  hate  them  all  —  those  German  baths,"  Lady 
Peggy  declared.  "Ridiculous  places  every  one  of 
them." 

"After  all,  you  see,"  Wilhelmina  declared,  "ill- 
ness of  any  sort  is  a  species  of  uncleanliness.  I  think 
I  should  like  to  go  somewhere  where  people  are 
healthy,  or  at  least  not  so  disgustingly  frank  about 
their  livers." 

"Why  not  stay  here?"  Stephen  ventured  to 
suggest.  "I  doubt  whether  any  one  in  Thorpe 
knows  what  a  liver  is." 

"  'Inutile!'  "  Lady  Peggy  exclaimed.  "Wil- 
helmina has  the  'wander  fever.'  I  can  see  it  in  her 
face.  Is  it  the  thunder,  I  wonder?" 

Deyes  walked  to  the  window  and  threw  it  open. 
The  storm  was  over,  but  the  rain  was  still  falling, 
a  soft  steady  downpour.  The  cooler  air  which  swept 
into  the  room  was  almost  faint  with  the  delicious 
perfume  of  flowers  and  shrubs  bathed  in  the  refresh- 
ing downpour. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  "that  there  is  some  magic 
abroad  to-night.  Did  you  meet  Lucifer  walking 
in  the  rose  garden?"  he  asked,  turning  slightly 


90  THE  MISSIONER 

towards  his  hostess.     "The  storm  may  have  brought 
him  —  even  here!" 

"Neither  Lucifer  nor  any  other  of  his  princely 
fellows,"  she  answered.  "The  only  demon  is  here," 
—  she  touched  her  bosom  lightly  —  "the  demon  of 
unrest.  It  is  not  I  alone  who  am  born  with  the 
wanderer's  curse!  There  are  many  of  us,  you  know .'' 

He  shook  his  head. 

"You  have  not  the  writing  in  your  face,"  he  said. 
"I  do  not  believe  that  you  are  one  of  the  accursed 
at  all.  To-night  - 

She  was  standing  by  his  side  now,  looking  out  into 
the  velvety  darkness.  Her  eves  challenged  his. 

"Well!     To-night?" 

"To-night  you  have  the  look  of  one  who  has  found 
what  she  has  sought  for  for  a  long  time.  This  sounds 
bald,  but  it  is  as  near  to  truth  as  I  can  get." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment.  She  stood  by  his 
side  listening  to  the  soft  constant  patter  of  the  rain, 
the  far-away  rumblings  of  the  dying  storm. 

"One  has  moods,"  she  murmured. 

"  Heaven  forbid  that  a  woman  should  be  without 
them!"  he  answered. 

"Do  you  ever  feel  as  though  something  were 
going  to  happen?  "  she  asked  suddenly. 

"Often,"  he  answered;  "but  nothing  ever  does!" 

Lady  Peggy  came  yawning  over  to  them. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  "I  feel  it  in  my  very  bones. 
I  firmly  believe  that  something  is  going  to  happen 
to  every  one  of  us.  I  have  a  most  mysterious 
pricking  about  my  left  elbow!" 

"To  every  one  of  us?"  Stephen  Hurd  asked, 
idly  enough. 


THE  STILL  FIGURE  IN  THE  CHAIR      91 

"To  every  one  of  us!"  she  answered.  "To  you, 
even,  who  live  in  Thorpe.  Remember  my  words 
when  you  get  home  to-night,  or  when  you  wake  in 
the  morning.  As  for  you,  Wilhelmina,  I  am  not  at 
all  sure  that  you  have  not  already  met  with  your 
adventure." 

Deyes  lit  a  cigarette. 

"Let  us  remember  this,"  he  declared.  "In  a 
week's  time  we  will  compare  notes." 

Stephen  Hurd  stood  up  to  take  his  leave. 

"You  are  really  going  —  soon?"  he  asked,  as  he 
bent  over  her  carelessly  offered  hand. 

"As  soon  as  I  can  decide  where  to  go  to,"  she 
answered. 

"Can  I  give  my  father  any  message?  Would 
you  care  to  see  him  to-morrow  morning?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"It  is  not  necessary,"  she  answered. 

He  made  his  adieux  reluctantly.  Somehow  he 
felt  that  the  night  had  not  been  a  success.  She  was 
going  away.  Very  likely  he  would  not  see  her  again. 
The  great  house  and  all  its  glories  would  be  closed 
to  him.  To  do  him  justice,  he  thought  of  that  less 
than  the  casual  manner  of  her  farewell.  His  vanity 
was  deeply  wounded.  She  had  begun  by  being  so 
gracious  —  no  wonder  that  he  had  lost  his  head  a 
little.  He  thought  over  the  events  of  the  last  few 
days.  Something  had  occurred  to  alter  her.  Could 
he  have  offended  in  any  way? 

He  walked  dejectedly  home,  heedless  of  the 
sodden  path  and  wet  grass.  A  light  was  still  burn- 
ing in  the  study.  He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and 
then,  turning  the  handle,  entered. 


92  THE  MISSIONER 

"You're  late,  father/'  he  remarked,  going  towards 
the  cupboard  to  select  a  pipe. 

There  was  no  answer.  The  still  figure  in  the  chair 
never  moved.  Something  in  the  silence  struck 
Stephen  as  ominous.  He  turned  abruptly  round, 
and  for  the  first  time  noticed  the  condition  of  the 
room.  A  chair  was  overturned,  a  vase  of  flowers 
spilt  upon  the  table,  the  low  window,  from  which 
one  stepped  almost  into  the  village  street,  was  wide 
open.  The  desk  in  front  of  the  motionless  figure 
was  littered  all  over  with  papers  in  wild  confusion. 
Stephen,  with  a  low  cry  of  horror,  crossed  the  room 
and  laid  his  hand  upon  his  father's  shoulder.  He 
tried  to  speak  to  him,  but  the  words  stuck  in  his 
throat.  He  knew  very  well  that  there  could  be  no 
reply,  His  father  was  sitting  dead  in  his  chair. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  BAYING  OF  THE  HOUNDS 

OUT  amongst  the  broken  fragments  of  the  storm, 
on  the  hill-top  and  down  the  rain-drenched 
lane,  Macheson  sought  in  vain  by  physical  exertion 
to  still  the  fever  which  burned  in  his  veins.  Nothing 
he  could  do  was  able  to  disturb  that  wonderful 
memory,  to  lessen  for  an  instant  the  significance  of 
those  few  amazing  seconds.  The  world  of  women, 
all  the  lighter  and  quieter  joys  of  life,  he  had,  with 
the  fierce  asceticism  of  the  young  reformer,  thrust 
so  resolutely  behind  him.  But  he  had  never 
imagined  anything  like  this!  Its  unexpectedness 
had  swept  him  off  his  feet.  The  memory  of  it  was 
most  delicious  torture! 

Sleep?  —  he  dared  not  think  of  it.  Who  could 
sleep  with  such  a  fire  in  his  blood  as  this?  He  heard 
the  storm  die  away,  thunder  and  wind  and  rain 
melted  into  the  deep  stillness  of  midnight.  A  dim 
moon  shone  behind  a  veil  of  mist.  The  dripping  of 
rain  from  the  trees  alone  remained.  Then  he  heard  a 
footstep  coming  down  the  lane.  His  first  wild  thought 
was  that  she  had  returned.  His  eyes  burned  their 
way  through  the  darkness.  Soon  he  saw  that  it  was 


94  THE  MISSIONER 

a  man  who  came  unsteadily,  but  swiftly,  down  the 
roadway. 

Macheson  leaned  over  the  gate.  He  would  have 
preferred  not  to  disclose  himself,  but  as  the  man 
passed,  he  was  stricken  with  a  sudden  consciousness 
that  for  him  the  events  of  the  night  were  not  yet 
over.  This  was  no  villager;  he  had  not  even  the 
appearance  of  an  Englishman.  He  was  short  and 
inclined  to  be  thick-set,  his  coat  collar  was  turned 
up,  and  a  tweed  cap  was  drawn  down  to  his  eyes. 
He  walked  with  uneven  footsteps  and  muttered 
to  himself  words  that  sounded  like  words  of  prayer, 
only  they  were  in  some  foreign  language.  Macheson 
accosted  him. 

"Hullo!"  he  said.  "Have  you  lost  your 
way?" 

The  man  cried  out  and  then  stood  still,  trembling 
on  the  roadside.  He  turned  a  white,  scared  face  to 
where  Macheson  was  leaning  against  the  gate. 

"Who  is  that?"  he  cried.  "What  do  you  want 
with  me?" 

Macheson  stepped  into  the  lane. 

"Nothing  at  all,"  he  answered  reassuringly.  "I 
simply  thought  that  you  might  have  lost  your  way. 
These  are  lonely  parts." 

The  newcomer  drew  a  step  nearer.  He  displayed 
a  small  ragged  beard,  a  terror-stricken  face,  and 
narrow,  very  bright  eyes.  His  black  clothes  were 
soaked  and  splashed  with  mud. 

"I  want  a  railway  station,"  he  said  rapidly. 
"Where  is  the  nearest?" 

Macheson  pointed  into  the  valley. 

"Just   where   you   see   that   light    burning,"    he 


THE  BAYING  OF  THE  HOUNDS    95 

answered,  "  but  there  will  be  no  trains  till  the  morn- 
ing." 

"Then  I  must  walk,"  the  man  declared  feverishly. 
"How  far  is  it  to  Nottingham?" 

"Twenty-five  miles,"  Macheson  answered. 

"Too  far!     And  Leicester?" 

"Twelve,  perhaps!  But  you  are  walking  in  the 
wrong  direction." 

The  man  turned  swiftly  round. 

"Point  towards  Leicester,"  he  said.  "I  shall 
find  my  way." 

Macheson  pointed  across  the  trees. 

"You  can't  miss  it,"  he  declared.  "Climb  the 
hill  till  you  get  to  a  road  with  telegraph  wires.  Turn 
to  the  left,  and  you  will  walk  into  Leicester." 

For  some  reason  the  stranger  seemed  to  be  occu- 
pied in  looking  earnestly  into  Macheson's  face. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"I  am  close  to  where  I  am  staying,"  Macheson 
answered.  "Just  in  the  wood  there." 

The  man  took  a  quick  step  forwards  and  then 
reeled.  His  hand  flew  to  his  side.  He  was  attacked 
by  sudden  faintness  and  would  have  fallen,  but  for 
Macheson's  outstretched  arm. 

"God!"  he  muttered,  "it  is  finished." 

He  was  obviously  on  the  verge  of  a  collapse. 
Macheson  dragged  him  into  the  shelter  and  poured 
brandy  between  his  teeth.  He  revived  a  little  and 
tried  to  rise. 

"I  must  go  on,"  he  cried.  "I  dare  not  stay 
here." 

The  terror  in  his  face  was  unmistakable.  Mache- 
son looked  at  him  gravely. 


96  THE  MISSIONER 

l(  You  had  better  stay  where  you  are  till  morning," 
he  said.  "You  are  not  in  a  fit  state  to  travel." 

The  man  had  raised  himself  upon  one  arm.  He 
looked  wildly  about  him. 

" Where  am  I?"  he  demanded.  "What  is  this 
place?" 

"It  is  a  gamekeeper's  shelter,"  Macheson  an- 
swered, "which  I  am  making  use  of  for  a  few  days. 
You  are  welcome  to  stay  here  until  the  morning." 

"I  must  go  on,"  the  man  moaned.  "I  am 
afraid." 

Almost  as  he  uttered  the  words  he  fell  back,  and 
Went  off  immediately  into  an  uneasy  doze.  Mache- 
son threw  his  remaining  rug  over  the  prostrate 
figure,  and,  lighting  his  pipe,  strolled  out  into  the 
spinney.  The  man's  coming  filled  him  with  a 
vague  sense  of  trouble.  He  seemed  so  utterly  out 
of  keeping  with  the  place,  he  represented  an  alien 
and  undesirable  note  —  a  note  almost  of  tragedy. 
All  the  time  in  his  broken  sleep  he  was  muttering 
to  himself.  Once  or  twice  he  cried  out  in  terror, 
once  especially  —  Macheson  turned  round  to  find 
him  sitting  up  on  the  rug,  his  brown  eyes  full  of  wild 
fear,  and  the  perspiration  running  down  his  face. 
A  stream  of  broken  words  flowed  from  his  lips. 
Macheson  thrust  him  back  on  the  rug. 

"Go  to  sleep,"  he  said.  "There  is  nothing  to  be 
afraid  of." 

After  that  the  man  slept  more  soundly.  Macheson 
himself  dozed  for  an  hour  until  he  was  awakened  by 
the  calling  of  the  birds.  Directly  he  opened  his  eyes 
he  knew  that  something  had  happened  to  him. 
It  was  not  only  the  music  of  the  birds  —  there  was  a 


THE  BAYING  OF  THE  HOUNDS         97 

strange  new  music  stirring  in  his  heart.  The  pearly 
light  in  the  eastern  sky  had  never  seemed  so  beauti- 
ful; never,  surely,  had  the  sunlight  streamed  down 
upon  so  perfect  a  corner  of  the  earth.  And  then, 
with  a  quick  rush  of  blood  to  his  cheeks,  he  remem- 
bered what  it  was  that  had  so  changed  the  world. 
He  lived  again  through  that  bewildering  moment, 
again  he  felt  the  delicious  warmth  of  her  presence, 
the  touch  of  her  hair  as  it  had  brushed  his  cheek, 
the  soft  passionate  pressure  of  her  lips  against  his. 
It  was  like  an  episode  from  a  fairy  story,  there  was 
something  so  delicate,  so  altogether  fanciful  in  that 
flying  visit.  Something,  too,  so  unbelievable  when 
he  thought  of  her  as  the  mistress  of  Thorpe,  the 
languid,  insolent  woman  of  the  world  who  had 
treated  him  so  coldly. 

Then  a  movement  behind  reminded  him  of  his 
strange  visitor.  He  turned  round.  The  man  was 
already  on  his  feet.  He  looked  better  for  his  sleep, 
but  the  wild  look  was  still  in  his  eyes. 

"I  must  go,"  he  said.  "I  ought  to  have  started 
before.  Thank  you  for  your  shelter." 

Macheson  reached  out  for  his  spirit  lamp. 

"Wait  a  few  minutes,"  he  said,  "and  I  will  have 
some  coffee  ready." 

The  man  hesitated.  He  looked  sorely  in  need  of 
something  of  the  sort.  As  he  came  to  the  opening 
of  the  shelter,  the  trembling  seized  him  again.  He 
looked  furtively  out  as  though  he  feared  the  day- 
light. The  sunshine  and  the  bright  open  day 
seemed  to  terrify  him. 

"I  ought  to  have  gone  on  last  night,"  he  muttered. 
"I  must " 


98  THE  MISSIONER 

He  broke  off  his  sentence.  Macheson,  too,  had 
turned  his  head  to  listen. 

"What  is  that?"  he  asked  sharply. 

"The  baying  of  dogs/'  Macheson  answered. 

"Dogs!     What  dogs?"  he  demanded. 

"Colonel  Harvey's  bloodhounds!" 

The  man's  face  was  ashen  now  to  the  lips.  He 
clutched  Macheson's  arm  frantically. 

"They  are  after  me!"  he  exclaimed.  "Where 
can  I  hide?  Tell  me  quick!" 

Macheson  looked  at  him  gravely. 

"What  have  you  been  doing?"  he  asked.  "They 
do  not  bring  bloodhounds  out  for  nothing." 

"I  have  hurt  a  man  down  in  the  village,"  was  the 
terrified  answer.  "I  didn't  mean  to  —  no!  I  swear 
that  I  did  not  mean  to.  I  went  to  his  house  and 
I  asked  him  for  money.  I  had  a  right  to  it!  And 
I  asked  him  to  tell  me  where  —  but  oh !  you  would 
not  understand.  Listen!  I  swear  to  you  that  I 
did  not  mean  to  hurt  him.  Why  should  I?  He 
was  old,  and  I  think  he  fainted.  God!  do  you  hear 
that?" 

He  clung  to  Macheson  in  a  frenzy.  The  deep  bay- 
ing of  the  dogs  was  coming  nearer  and  nearer. 

"Listen,"  Macheson  said,  "the  dogs  will  not  be 
allowed  to  hurt  you,  but  if  you  are  loose  I  promise 
that  I  will  protect  you  from  them.  You  had  better 
wait  here  with  me." 

The  man  fell  upon  his  knees. 

"Sir,"  he  begged,  "I  am  innocent  of  everything 
except  a  blow  struck  in  anger.  Help  me  to  escape, 
I  implore  you.  There  are  others  who  will  suffer  — 
if  anything  happens  to  me." 


THE  BAYING  OF  THE  HOUNDS         99 

"The  law  is  just,"  Macheson  answered.  "You 
will  suffer  nothing  except  justice." 

"I  want  mercy,  not  justice,"  the  man  sobbed. 
"For  the  love  of  God,  help  me!" 

Macheson  hesitated.  Again  the  early  morning 
stillness  was  broken  by  that  hoarse,  terrifying  sound. 
His  sporting  instincts  were  aroused.  He  had  small 
sympathy  with  the  use  of  such  means  against 
human  beings. 

"I  will  give  you  a  chance,"  he  said.  "Remember 
it  is  nothing  more.  Follow  me!" 

He  led  the  way  to  the  slate  pit. 

"Can  you  swim?"  he  asked. 

"Yes!"  the  man  answered. 

"This  is  where  I  take  my  morning  bath,"  Mache- 
son said.  "  You  will  see  that  though  you  can  scram- 
ble down  and  dive  in,  it  is  too  precipitous  to  get  out. 
Therefore,  I  have  fixed  up  a  rope  on  the  other  side  — 
it  goes  through  those  bushes,  and  is  attached  to  the 
trunk  of  a  tree  beneath  the  bracken.  If  you  swim 
across,  you  can  pull  yourself  out  of  the  water  and 
hide  just  above  the  water  in  the  bushes.  There  is 
just  a  chance  that  you  may  escape  observation." 

Already  he  was  on  his  way  down,  but  Macheson 
stopped  him. 

"I  shall  leave  a  suit  of  dry  clothes  in  the  shelter," 
he  said.  "If  they  should  give  up  the  chase  you  are 
welcome  to  them.  Now  you  had  better  dive.  They 
are  in  the  spinney." 

The  man  went  in,  after  the  fashion  of  a  practised 
diver.  Macheson  turned  round  and  retraced  his 
steps  towards  his  temporary  dwelling-house. 


CHAPTER  XII 

RETREAT 

OUT  in  the  lane  a  motley  little  group  of  men  were 
standing.  Stephen  Kurd  was  in  the  act  of 
springing  off  his  brown  cob.  The  dogs  were  already 
in  the  shelter. 

"What  the  devil  are  you  doing  here?"  Hurd 
asked,  as  Macheson  strode  through  the  undergrowth. 

Macheson  pointed  to  the  shelter. 

"I  could  find  no  other  lodging,"  he  answered, 
"thanks  to  circumstances  of  which  you  are  aware." 

Stephen  Hurd  kicked  the  gate  open.  He  was 
pale  and  there  were  deep  lines  under  his  eyes.  He 
was  still  in  his  evening  clothes,  except  for  a  rough 
tweed  coat,  but  his  white  tie  was  hanging  loose,  and 
his  patent-leather  shoes  were  splashed  with  mud. 

"We  are  chasing  a  man,"  he  said.  "Have  you 
seen  him." 

"I  have,"  Macheson  answered.  "What  has  he 
done?" 

There  was  a  momentary  silence.  Hurd  spoke  with 
a  sob. 

"Murdered  —  my  father!" 

Macheson  was  shocked. 

"You  mean  — that  Mr.  Hurd  is  dead?"  he  asked, 
in  an  awe-stricken  tone. 


RETREAT  101 

"Dead!"  the  young  man  answered  with  a  sob. 
" Killed  in  his  chair!" 

The  dogs  came  out  of  the  shelter.  They  turned 
towards  the  interior  of  the  spinney.  The  little 
crowd  came  streaming  through  the  gate. 

"I  gave  shelter  to  a  man  who  admitted  that  he 
was  in  trouble,"  he  said  gravely.  "He  heard  the 
dogs  and  he  was  terrified.  He  has  jumped  into  the 
slate  quarry." 

The  dogs  were  on  the  trail  now.  They  followed 
them  to  the  edge  of  the  quarry.  Here  the  bushes 
were  trodden  down,  a  man's  cap  was  hanging  on 
one  close  to  the  bottom.  They  all  peered  over  into 
the  still  water,  unnaturally  black.  Amies,  the  head 
keeper,  raised  his  head. 

"It's  twenty-five  feet  deep  —  some  say  forty,  and 
a  sheer  drop,"  he  declared  impressively.  "We'll 
have  to  drag  it  for  the  body." 

"Best  take  the  dogs  round  the  other  side,  and 
make  sure  he  ain't  got  out  again,"  one  of  the  crowd 
suggested. 

Amies  pointed  scornfully  to  the  precipitous  side. 
Such  a  feat  was  clearly  impossible.  Nevertheless 
the  dogs  were  taken  round.  For  a  few  minutes  they 
were  uneasy,  but  eventually  they  returned  to  the 
spot  from  which  their  intended  victim  had  dived. 
Every  one  was  peering  down  into  the  dark  water 
as  though  fascinated. 

"I  thought  as  they  come  up  once  or  twice  before 
they  were  drownded,"  somebody  remarked. 

"Not  unless  they  want  to,"  another  answered. 
"This  chap  wasn't  too  anxious.  He  knew  his 
goose  was  cooked." 


102  THE  MISSIONER 

The  dogs  were  muzzled  and  led  away.  One  by 
one  the  labourers  and  servants  dispersed.  Two  of 
them  started  off  to  telegraph  for  a  drag.  Stephen 
Hurd  was  one  of  the  last  to  depart. 

"I  hope  you  will  allow  me  to  say  how  sorry  I  am 
for  you,"  Macheson  declared  earnestly.  "Such  a 
tragedy  in  a  village  like  Thorpe  seems  almost  in- 
credible. I  suppose  it  was  a  case  of  attempted 
robbery?" 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  Hurd  answered. 
"There  was  plenty  of  money  left  untouched,  and  I 
can't  find  that  there  is  any  short.  The  man  arrived 
after  the  maids  had  gone  to  bed,  but  they  heard  him 
knock  at  the  door,  and  heard  my  father  let  him  in." 

"They  didn't  hear  any  struggle  then?"  Mache- 
son asked. 

Hurd  shook  his  head. 

"There  was  only  one  blow  upon  his  head,"  he 
answered.  "Graikson  says  that  death  was  probably 
through  shock." 

Macheson  felt  curiously  relieved. 

"The  man  did  not  go  there  as  a  murderer  then," 
he  remarked.  "Perhaps  not  even  as  a  thief.  There 
may  have  been  a  quarrel." 

"He  killed  him,  anyhow,"  Hurd  said  brokenly. 
"What  time  was  it  when  you  first  saw  him?" 

"About  midnight,  I  should  think,"  Macheson 
answered.  "He  came  down  the  lane  like  a  drunken 
man." 

"What  was  he  like?"  Hurd  asked. 

"Small,  and  I  should  say  a  foreigner,"  Macheson 
answered.  "He  spoke  English  perfectly,  but  there 
was  an  accent,  and  when  he  was  asleep  he  talked 


RETREAT  103 

to  himself  in  a  language  which,  to  the  best  of  my 
belief,  I  have  never  heard  before  in  my  life." 

"A  foreigner?"  Kurd  muttered.  "You  are  sure 
of  that?" 

"  Quite,"  Macheson  answered.  "  There  could  be 
no  mistake  about  it." 

Stephen  Hurd  mounted  his  cob  and  turned  its 
head  towards  home.  He  asked  no  more  questions; 
he  seemed,  if  possible,  graver  than  ever.  Before  he 
started,  however,  he  pointed  with  his  whip  towards 
the  shelter. 

"  You've  no  right  there,  you  know,"  he  said.  "  We 
can't  allow  it.  You  must  clear  out  at  once." 

"Very  well,"  Macheson  answered.  "I'm  tres- 
passing, of  course,  but  one  must  sleep  somewhere." 

"There  is  no  necessity  for  you  to  remain  in  Thorpe 
at  all,"  Hurd  said.  "I  think,  in  the  circumstances, 
the  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  go." 

"In  the  circumstances!"  The  irony  of  the 
phrase  struck  home.  What  did  this  young  man 
know  of  the  circumstances?  There  were  reasons  now, 
indeed,  why  he  should  fly  from  Thorpe  as  from  a 
place  stricken  with  the  pestilence.  But  no  other 
soul  in  this  world  could  know  of  those  reasons  save 
himself  —  and  she. 

"I  should  not,  of  course,  think  of  holding  my 
services  at  present,"  Macheson  said  gravely.  "If 
you  think  it  would  be  better,  I  will  go  away." 

Stephen  Hurd  nodded  as  he  cantered  off. 

"  I  amgladto  hear  you  say  so,"  he  declared  shortly. 
"Go  and  preach  in  the  towns  where  this  scum  is 
reared.  There's  plenty  of  work  for  missioners  there." 

Macheson  stood  still  until  the  young  man  on   his 


104  THE  MISSIONER 

pony  had  disappeared.  Then  he  turned  round  and 
walked  slowly  back  towards  the  slate  quarry.  The 
black  waters  remained  smooth  and  unrippled;  there 
was  no  sound  of  human  movement  anywhere.  In 
the  adjoining  field  a  harvesting-machine  was  at 
work;  in  the  spinney  itself  the  rabbits,  disturbed 
last  night  by  the  storm,  were  scurrying  about  more 
frolicsome  than  usual;  a  solitary  thrush  was  whistling 
in  the  background.  The  sunlight  lay  in  crooked 
beams  about  the  undergrowth,  a  gentle  west  breeze 
was  just  stirring  the  foliage  overhead.  There  was 
nothing  in  the  air  to  suggest  in  any  way  the  strange 
note  of  tragedy  which  the  coming  of  this  hunted 
man  had  nevertheless  brought. 

Macheson  was  turning  away  when  a  slight  dis- 
turbance in  the  undergrowth  on  the  other  side  of 
the  quarry  attracted  his  notice.  He  stood  still  and 
watched  the  spot.  The  bracken  was  shaking  slightly 
—  then  the  sound  of  a  dry  twig,  suddenly  snapped! 
For  a  moment  he  hesitated.  Then  he  turned  on 
his  heel  and  walked  abruptly  away.  With  almost 
feverish  haste,  he  flung  his  few  belongings  into 
his  portmanteau,  leaving  in  the  shelter  his  flask,  a 
suit  of  clothes,  and  several  trifles.  Five  minutes 
later  he  was  on  his  way  down  the  hill,  with  his  bag 
upon  his  shoulder  and  his  face  set  southwards. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A  CREATURE  OF  IMPULSE 

UP  the  broad  avenue  to  the  great  house  of  Thorpe, 
Stephen  Hurd  slowly  made  his  way,  his  hands 
clasped  behind  him,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground. 
But  his  appearance  was  not  altogether  the  appear- 
ance of  a  man  overcome  with  grief.  The  events  of 
the  last  few  days  had  told  upon  him,  and  his  deep 
mourning  had  a  sombre  look.  Yet  there  were 
thoughts  working  even  then  in  his  brain  which 
battled  hard  with  his  natural  depression.  Strange 
things  had  happened  —  stranger  things  than  he  was 
able  all  at  once  to  digest.  He  could  not  see  the 
end,  but  there  were  possibilities  upon  which  he 
scarcely  dared  to  brood. 

He  was  shown  into  the  library  and  left  alone 
for  nearly  twenty  minutes.  Then  Wilhelmina  came, 
languid,  and  moving  as  though  with  tired  feet.  Yet 
her  manner  was  gentler  and  kinder  than  usual.  She 
leaned  back  in  one  of  the  vast  easy-chairs,  and  mur- 
mured a  few  graceful  words  of  sympathy. 

"We  were  all  so  sorry  for  you,  Mr.  Hurd,"  she 
said.  "It  was  a  most  shocking  affair." 

"I  thank  you  very  much  —  madam,"  he  replied, 
after  a  moment's  pause.  It  was  better,  perhaps,  for 


106  THE  MISSIONER 

the  present,  to  assume  that  their  relations  were  to 
continue  those  of  employer  and  employed. 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  continued,  " whether  you 
care  to  speak  about  this  shocking  affair.  Perhaps 
you  would  prefer  that  we  did  not  allude  to  it  for  the 
present." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  am  not  sure,"  he  answered,  "that  it  is  not 
rather  a  relief  to  have  it  spoken  of.  One  can't  get 
it  out  of  one's  mind,  of  course." 

"There  is  no  news  of  the  man  —  no  fresh  capture?" 

"None,"  he  answered.  "They  are  dragging  the 
slate  quarry  again  to-day.  I  believe  there  are  some 
very  deep  holes  where  the  body  may  have  drifted." 

"  Do  you  believe  that  that  is  the  case?"  she  asked; 
"or  do  you  think  that  he  got  clean  away?" 

"I  cannot  tell,"  he  answered.  "It  seems  impos- 
sible that  he  should  have  escaped  altogether  without 
help." 

"And  that  he  could  not  have  had,  could  he?"  she 
asked. 

He  looked  across  at  her  thoughtfully,  watching 
her  face,  curious  to  see  whether  his  words  might 
have  any  effect. 

"Only  from  one  person,"  he  said. 

"Yes?" 

"From  Macheson,  the  fellow  who  came  here  to 
convert  us  all,"  he  said  deliberately. 

Beyond  a  slight  elevation  of  the  eyebrows,  his 
scrutiny  was  in  vain,  for  she  made  no  sign. 

"He  scarcely  seems  a  likely  person,  does  he,  to  aid 
a  criminal?"  she  asked  in  measured  tones. 

Stephen  Hurd  shrugged  his  shoulders. 


A  CREATURE  OF  IMPULSE  107 

"Perhaps  not,"  he  admitted,  "but  at  any  rate  he 
sheltered  him." 

"As  he  doubtless  would  have  done  any  passer-by 
on  such  a  night,"  she  remarked.  "By  the  bye,  what 
has  become  of  that  young  man?" 

"He  has  left  the  neighbourhood,"  Hurd  answered 
shortly. 

"Left  altogether?"  she  inquired. 

"I  imagine  so,"  Hurd  answered.  "I  had  the 
shelter  destroyed,  and  I  gave  him  to  understand 
pretty  clearly  what  your  wishes  were.  There  really 
wasn't  much  else  for  him  to  do." 

Her  eyelids  drooped  over  her  half  closed  eyes. 
For  a  moment  she  was  silent. 

"If  you  hear  of  him  again,"  she  said  quietly,  "be 
so  good  as  to  let  me  know." 

Her  indifference  seemed  too  complete  to  be  as- 
sumed. Yet  somehow  or  other  Hurd  felt  that  she 
was  displeased  with  him. 

"I  will  do  so,"  he  said,  "if  I  hear  anything  about 
him.  It  scarcely  seems  likely." 

Wilhelmina  sat  quite  still.  Her  head,  resting 
slightly  upon  the  long  delicate  fingers  of  her  right 
hand,  was  turned  away  from  the  young  man  who 
was  daring  to  watch  her.  She  was  apparently 
gazing  across  the  park,  down  the  magnificent  avenue 
of  elms  which  led  to  the  village.  So  he  was  gone  — 
without  a  word!  How  else?  On  the  whole  she 
could  not  but  approve!  And  yet!  —  and  yet! 

She  turned  once  more  to  Hurd. 

"I  read  the  account  of  the  inquest  on  your 
father's  death,"  she  said,  speaking  very  slowly,  with 
her  usual  drawl,  yet  with  a  softer  note  in  her  voice, 


108  THE  MISSIONER 

as  though  out  of  respect  for  the  dead  man.  "  Does 
it  not  seem  very  strange  that  the  money  was  left 
\mtouched?" 

"Yes!"  he  answered.  "Yet,  after  all,  I  don't 
know.  You  see,  the  governor  must  have  closed  with 
the  fellow  and  shown  fight  before  he  got  that  knock 
on  the  head.  If  the  thief  was  really  only  an  ordinary 
tramp,  he'd  be  scared  to  death  at  what  he'd  done, 
and  probably  bolt  for  his  life  without  stopping  to 
take  anything  with  him." 

"Isn't  it  rather  surprising  to  have  tramps  —  in 
Thorpe?"  she  asked. 

"I  have  scarcely  ever  seen  one,"  he  answered. 

Wilhelmina  turned  her  head  slightly,  so  that  she 
was  now  directly  facing  him.  She  looked  him 
steadily  in  the  eyes. 

"Has  it  occurred  to  you,  Mr.  Hurd,"  she  asked, 
"that  this  young  man  may  not  have  been  a  tramp 
at  all,  and  that  his  visit  to  your  father  may  have 
been  on  other  business  than  that  of  robbery?" 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment. 

"My  father's  connexions  with  the  outside  world," 
he  said  slowly,  "were  so  slight." 

"Yet  it  has  occurred  to  you?" 

"Yes!  "he  admitted. 

"And  have  you  come  to  any  conclusion?" 

"None,"  he  declared. 

"You  carried  out  my  instructions  with  regard  to 
the  papers  and  documents  belonging  to  the  estate?" 

"Certainly,  madam,"  he  answered.  ''Within  five 
minutes  of  receiving  your  message,  they  were  all 
locked  up  in  the  safe  and  the  key  handed  to  your 
messenger." 


A  CREATURE  OF  IMPULSE  109 

"You  did  not  go  through  them  yourself?"  she 
asked. 

"I  did  not,"  he  answered,  lying  with  admirable 
steadiness.  "I  scarcely  felt  that  I  was  entitled  to 
do  so." 

"  So  that  you  could  not  tell  if  any  were  missing?" 
she  continued. 

"I  could  not,"  he  admitted. 

"Your  father  never  spoke,  then,  of  any  connex- 
ions with  people  —  outside  Thorpe  —  likely  to  prove 
of  a  dangerous  character?" 

The  young  man  smiled.  "My  father,"  he  said, 
"had  not  been  farther  than  Loughborough  for 
twenty  years.  " 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Wilhelmina,  de- 
liberately, and  without  any  attempt  at  concealment, 
was  meditatively  watching  the  young  man,  study- 
ing his  features  with  a  half-contemptuous  and 
yet  searching  interest.  Perhaps  the  slightly  curv- 
ing lips,  the  hard  intentness  of  her  gaze,  suggested 
that  he  was  disbelieved.  He  lost  colour  and 
fidgeted  about.  It  was  a  scrutiny  not  easy  to 
bear,  and  he  felt  that  it  was  going  against  him. 
Already  she  had  written  him  down  a  liar. 

She  spoke  to  him  at  last.  If  the  silence  had  not 
ended  soon,  he  would  have  made  some  blundering 
attempt  to  retrieve  his  position.  She  spoke  just 
in  time  to  avert  such  ignominy. 

"Mr.  Kurd,"  she  said,  "the  question  of  your 
father's  successor  is  one  that  has  doubtless  occurred 
to  you  as  it  has  to  me.  I  trust  that  you  will,  at 
any  rate,  remain  here.  As  to  whether  I  can  offer 


110  THE  MISSIONER 

you  your  father's  position  in  its  entirety,  I  am  not 
for  the  present  assured." 

He  glanced  up  at  her  furtively.  He  was  certain 
now  that  he  had  played  his  cards  ill.  She  had  read 
through  him  easily.  He  cursed  himself  for  a  lout. 

"You  see,"  she  continued,  "the  post  is  one  of 
great  responsibility,  because  it  entails  the  manage- 
ment of  the  whole  estates.  It  is  necessary  for  me  to 
feel  absolute  confidence  in  the  person  who  undertakes 
it.  I  have  not  known  you  very  long,  Mr.  Kurd." 

He  bowed.     He.  could  not  trust  himself  to  words. 

"I  have  instructed  them  to  send  some  one  down 
from  my  solicitor's  office  for  a  week  or  so,"  she 
continued,  "to  assist  you.  In  the  meantime,  I 
must  think  the  matter  over." 

"I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  madam,"  he 
said.  "You  will  find  me,  I  think,  quite  as  trust- 
worthy and  devoted  to  your  interests  as  my  father." 

She  smiled  slightly.  She  recognized  exactly  his 
quandary,  and  it  amused  her.  The  slightest  sug- 
gestion of  menace  in  his  manner  would  be  to  give 
the  lie  to  himself. 

"I  am  coming  down  this  afternoon,"  she  said, 
"to  go  through  the  safes.  Please  be  there  in  case 
I  want  you.  You  will  not  forget,  in  case  you  should 
hear  anything  of  Mr.  Macheson,  that  I  desire  to 
be  informed." 

He  took  his  leave  humiliated  and  angry.  He 
had  started  the  game  with  a  wrong  move  —  retriev- 
able, perhaps,  but  annoying.  Wilhelmina  passed 
into  the  library,  where  Lady  Peggy,  in  a  wonder- 
ful morning  robe,  was  leaning  back  in  an  easy-chair 
dictating  letters  to  Captain  Austin. 


A  CREATURE  OF  IMPULSE  111 

"You  dear  woman!"  she  exclaimed,  " don't  inter- 
rupt us,  will  you?  I  have  found  an  ideal  secretary, 
writes  everything  I  tell  him,  and  spells  quite  de- 
cently considering  his  profession.  My  conscience  is 
getting  lighter  every  moment." 

"And  my  heart  heavier,"  Austin  grumbled.  "A 
most  flirtatious  correspondence  yours." 

She  laughed  softly. 

"My  next  shall  be  to  my  dressmaker,"  she  de- 
clared. "Such  a  charming  woman,  and  so  trustful. 
Behave  yourself  nicely,  and  you  shall  go  with  me  to 
call  on  her  next  week,  and  see  her  mannikins.  By 
the  bye,  Wilhelmina,  am  I  hostess  or  are  you?" 

"You,  by  all  means/'  Wilhelmina  answered. 
"I  shall  go  to-morrow  or  the  next  day.  Is  any  one 
coming  to  lunch?" 

"His  Grace,  I  fancy  —  no  one  else." 

Wilhelmina  yawned. 

"Where  is  Gilbert?"  she  asked. 

"Asleep  on  the  lawn  last  time  I  saw  him." 

"No  one  shooting,  then?" 

"We're  going  to  beat  up  the  home  turnips  after 
lunch,"  Captain  Austin  answered.  "It's  rather  an 
off  day  with  us.  Gilbert  is  nursing  his  leg  —  fancies 
he  has  rheumatism  coming." 

She  strolled  out  into  the  garden,  but  she  avoided 
the  spot  where  Gilbert  Deyes  lounged  in  an  easy- 
chair,  reading  the  paper  and  smoking  cigarettes, 
with  his  leg  carefully  arranged  on  a  garden  chair  in 
front  of  him.  She  took  the  winding  path  which 
skirted  the  kitchen  gardens  and  led  to  the  green 
lane,  along  which  the  carts  passed  to  the  home  farm. 
She  felt  that  what  she  was  doing  was  in  the  nature 


112  THE  MISSIONER 

of -an  experiment,  she  was  yielding  again  to  that 
most  astonishing  impulse  which  once  before  had 
taken  her  so  completely  by  surprise.  She  passed 
out  of  the  gate  and  along  the  lane.  She  began  to 
climb  the  hill.  About  the  success  of  her  experiment 
she  no  longer  had  any  doubt.  Her  heart  was  beating 
with  pleasant  insistence,  a  feeling  of  suppressed 
excitement  sent  the  blood  gliding  through  her  veins 
with  delicious  softness.  All  the  time  she  mocked  at 
herself  —  that  this  should  be  Wilhelmina  Thorpe- 
Hatton,  to  whom  the  most  distinguished  men,  not 
only  in  one  capital,  but  in  Europe,  had  paid  court, 
whom  the  most  ardent  wooer  had  failed  to  move,  who 
had  found,  indeed,  in  all  the  professions  of  love- 
making  something  insufferably  tedious.  She  was  at 
once  amused  and  annoyed  at  herself,  but  an  instinc- 
tive habit  of  truthfulness  forbade  even  self-deception. 
Her  cheeks  were  aflame,  and  her  heart  was  beating 
like  a  girl's  as  she  reached  the  spinney.  She  recog- 
nized the  fact  that  she  was  experiencing  a  new  and 
delightful  pleasure,  an  emotion  as  unexpected  and 
ridiculous  as  it  was  inexplicable.  But  she  hugged 
it  to  herself.  It  pleased  her  immensely  to  feel 
that  the  impossible  had  happened.  What  all 
this  army  of  men,  experienced  in  the  wiles  of  love- 
making,  had  failed  to  do,  a  crazy  boy  had  accom- 
plished without  an  effort.  Absolutely  bizarre,  of 
course,  but  not  so  wonderful  after  all!  She  was  so 
secure  against  any  ordinary  assault.  She  felt  her- 
self like  the  heroine  of  one  of  Gautier's  novels.  If 
he  had  been  there  himself,  she  would  have  taken  him 
into  her  arms  with  all  the  passionate  simplicity  of  a 
child. 


A  CREATURE  OF  IMPULSE  113 

But  he  was  not  there.  On  the  contrary,  the  place 
was  looking  forlorn  and  deserted.  The  shelter  had 
been  razed  to  the  ground  —  she  felt  that  she  hated 
Stephen  Kurd  as  she  contemplated  its  ruin  —  the 
hedge  was  broken  down  by  the  inrush  of  people 
a  few  days  ago.  In  the  absence  of  any  sunshine, 
the  country  around  seemed  bleak  and  colourless. 
She  leaned  over  the  gate  and  half  closed  her  eyes. 
Memory  came  more  easily  like  thatl 


CHAPTER  XIV 

SEARCHING  THE  PAPERS 

THE  late  Stephen  Hurd  had  been  a  methodical 
man.  Every  one  of  those  many  packets  of 
foolscap  and  parchment  bore  in  the  left-hand  corner 
near  the  top  a  few  carefully  written  words  sum- 
marizing their  contents.  It  was  clear  from  the  first 
that  Wilhelmina  had  undertaken  not  an  examination 
but  a  search.  Mortgages,  leases,  agreements,  she 
left  unopened  and  untouched.  One  by  one  she 
passed  them  back  to  the  young  man  who  handed 
them  out  to  her,  for  replacement.  In  the  end  she  had 
retained  one  small  packet  of  letters  only,  on  the  out- 
side of  which  were  simply  the  initials  P.  N.  These 
she  held  for  a  moment  thoughtfully  in  her  hand. 

"Do  you  happen  to  remember,  Mr.  Hurd,"  she 
said,  "  whether  this  small  packet  which  I  have  here 
was  amongst  the  papers  which  you  found  had  been 
disturbed  after  the  attack  upon  your  father?" 

"I  am  sorry,"  the  young  man  answered,  "but  it  is 
quite  impossible  for  me  to  say.  I  do  not  remember 
it  particularly." 

Wilhelmina  turned  it  over  thoughtfully.  It  was 
an  insignificant  packet  to  hold  the  tragedy  of  a 
woman's  life. 


SEARCHING  THE  PAPERS  115 

"You  see,"  she  continued,  "that  it  has  the 
appearance  of  having  been  tampered  with.  There 
are  marks  of  sealing  wax  upon  the  tape  and  upon 
the  paper  here.  Then,  too,"  she  continued,  turning 
it  over,  "it  has  been  tied  up  hastily,  unlike  any  of 
the  other  packets.  The  tape,  too,  is  much  too  long. 
It  looks  almost  as  though  some  letters  or  papers  had 
been  withdrawn." 

"I  am  afraid  I  cannot  help  you  at  all,"  he  ad- 
mitted regretfully.  "My  father  never  allowed  any 
one  but  himself  to  open  that  safe.  Mine  was  the 
out-of-door  share  of  the  work  —  and  the  rent-book, 
of  course.  I  kept  that." 

She  slowly  undid  the  tape.  The  contents  of  the 
packet  consisted  of  several  letters,  which  she 
smoothed  out  with  her  fingers  before  beginning  to 
read.  Stephen  Hurd  stood  with  his  back  towards 
her,  rearranging  the  bundles  of  documents  in  the 
safe. 

"You  have  no  idea  then,"  she  asked  softly,  "of 
the  contents  of  this  packet?" 

He  turned  deliberately  round.  He  was  not  in 
the  least  comfortable.  It  was  almost  as  though  she 
could  see  through  his  tweed  shooting- jacket  into 
that  inner  pocket. 

" May  I  see  which  packet  you  refer  to?"  he  asked. 

She  showed  it  to  him  without  placing  it  in  his 
hand.  He  shook  his  head. 

"No!"  he  said,  "I  have  not  noticed  them  before." 

She  sighed  —  or  was  it  a  yawn?  At  any  rate,  her 
eyes  left  his  face,  for  which  he  was  immediately 
grateful.  She  began  to  read  the  papers,  and, 
having  finished  his  task,  he  walked  towards  the 


116  THE  MISSIONER 

window  and  stood  there  looking  out.  He  stood 
there  minute  after  minute,  hearing  only  the  sound 
of  rustling  paper  behind.  When  at  last  it  ceased 
he  turned  around. 

She  had  risen  to  her  feet  and  was  slowly  drawing 
on  her  gloves.  The  letters  had  disappeared,  pre- 
sumably into  her  pocket,  but  she  made  no  reference 
to  them.  When  she  spoke,  her  voice  was  smooth 
and  deliberate  as  usual.  Somehow  or  other  he 
was  at  once  conscious,  however,  that  she  had  re- 
ceived a  shock. 

"I  presume,  Mr.  Hurd,"  she  said  quietly,  "that 
amongst  your  father's  private  papers  you  did  not 
discover  anything  —  unexpected?" 

"I  am  afraid  I  scarcely  follow  you,  madam,"  he 
answered. 

"I  am  asking  you/'  she  repeated  deliberately, 
"whether  amongst  your  father's  private  papers, 
which  I  presume  you  have  looked  through,  you 
found  anything  of  a  surprising  nature?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  found  scarcely  any,"  he  answered,  "only  his 
will  and  a  memorandum  of  a  few  investments.  May 
I  ask » 

She  turned  towards  the  door. 

"No!"  she  said,  "do  not  ask  me  any  questions. 
To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  not  yet  fully  persuaded 
that  the  necessity  exists." 

"I  do  not  understand,"  he  protested. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  She  did  not  trouble 
to  explain  her  words.  He  followed  her  along  the 
cool,  white-flagged  hall,  hung  with  old  prints  and 
trophies  of  sport,  into  the  few  yards  of  garden  out- 


"  FORGIVE  ME,"  HE  SAID,  WITH  HIS  HAND  UPON  THE  GATE.     Page  117 


SEARCHING  THE  PAPERS  117 

side,  brilliant  with  cottage  flowers.  Beyond  the 
little  iron  gate  her  carriage  was  waiting  —  a  low 
victoria,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  great  horses,  whose 
sleek  coats  and  dark  crimson  rosettes  suggested 
rather  a  turn  in  the  Park  than  these  country  lanes. 
The  young  man  was  becoming  desperate.  She  was 
leaving  him  altogether  mystified.  Somewhere  or 
other  he  had  missed  his  cue:  he  had  meant  to  have 
conducted  the  interview  so  differently.  And  never 
had  she  looked  so  provokingly  well!  He  recognized, 
with  hopeless  admiration,  the  perfection  of  her 
toilette  —  the  trim  white  flannel  dress,  shaped  by 
the  hand  of  an  artist  to  reveal  in  its  simple  lines 
the  peculiar  grace  of  her  slim  figure;  the  patent 
shoes  with  their  suggestion  of  open-work  silk 
stockings;  the  black  picture  hat  and  veil,  a  deli- 
cate recognition  of  her  visit  to  a  house  of  mourning, 
yet  light  and  gossamer-like,  with  no  suggestion 
of  gloom.  Never  had  she  seemed  so  desirable 
to  him,  so  fascinating  and  yet  so  unattainable. 
He  made  a  last  and  clumsy  effort  to  re-establish 
himself. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said,  with  his  hand  upon  the 
ga/te,  "but  I  must  ask  you  what  you  mean  by  that 
last  question.  My  father  had  no  secrets  that  I  know 
of.  How  could  he,  when  for  the  last  forty  years 
his  life  was  practically  spent  in  this  village  street?" 

She  nodded  her  head  slowly. 

"Sometimes,"  she  murmured,  "events  come  to 
those  even  who  sit  and  wait,  those  whose  lives  are 
absolutely  secluded.  No  one  is  safe  from  fate,  you 
know." 

"But  mv   father!"   he   answered.     "He   had   no 


118  THE  MISSIONER 

tastes,  no  interests  outside  the  boundary  of  your 
estates." 

She  motioned  to  him  to  open  the  gate. 

"Perhaps  not,"  she  assented,  "yet  I  suppose  that 
there  is  not  one  of  us  who  knows  as  much  of  his 
neighbour's  life  as  he  imagines  he  does.  Good  after- 
noon, Mr.  Hurd!  My  visit  has  given  me  something 
to  think  about.  I  may  send  for  you  to  come  to  the 
house  before  I  go  away." 

She  drove  away,  leaning  back  amongst  the 
cushions  with  half  closed  eyes,  as  though  tired.  The 
country  scenery  with  its  pastoral  landscape,  its 
Watteau-like  perfections,  was  wholly  unseen.  Her 
memory  had  travelled  back,  she  was  away  amongst 
the  days  when  the  roar  of  life  had  been  in  her  ears, 
when  for  a  short  while,  indeed,  the  waves  had  seemed 
likely  to  break  over  her  head.  An  unpleasant 
echo,  this!  No  more  than  an  echo — and  yet! 
The  thought  of  old  Stephen  Hurd  lying  in  his  grave 
suddenly  chilled  her.  She  shivered  as  she  left 
the  carriage,  and  instead  of  entering  the  house, 
crossed  the  lawn  to  where  Gilbert  Deyes  was  loung- 
ing. He  struggled  to  his  feet  at  her  approach,  but 
she  waved  him  back  again. 

"Sybarite,"  she  murmured,  glancing  around  at  his 
arrangements  for  complete  comfort.  "You  have 
sent  Austin  out  alone." 

"Dear  lady,  I  confess  it,"  he  answered.  "What 
would  you  have?  It  is  too  fine  an  afternoon  to  kill 
anything." 

She  sank  into  a  chair  by  his  side.  A  slight  smile 
parted  her  lips  as  she  glanced  around.  On  a  table 
by  his  side,  a  table  drawn  back  into  the  shade  of  the 


SEARCHING  THE  PAPERS  119 

cedar  tree,  were  several  vellum-bound  volumes,  a 
tall  glass,  and  a  crystal  jug  half  full  of  some  delicate 
amber  beverage,  mixed  with  fruit  and  ice,  a  box  of 
cigarettes,  an  ivory  paper-cutter,  and  a  fan. 

"  Your  capacity  for  making  yourself  comfortable," 
she  remarked,  "  amounts  almost  to  genius." 

"Let  it  go  at  that,"  he  answered.  "I  like  the 
sound  of  the  word." 

"I  want  you  to  go  to  Paris  for  me,"  she  said 
abruptly. 

He  flicked  the  ash  off  the  end  of  his  cigarette  and 
looked  at  her  thoughtfully.  Not  a  line  of  his  face 
betrayed  the  least  sign  of  surprise. 

" To-morrow?"  he  asked. 

"Yes!" 

"I  can  get  up  in  time  for  the  two-twenty,"  he 
remarked  thoughtfully.  "I  wonder  whether  it  will 
be  too  late  for  the  Armenonville!" 

She  laughed  quietly. 

"You  are  a  'poseur/  "  she  declared. 

"Naturally,"  he  admitted.  "We  all  are,  even 
when  the  audience  consists  of  ourselves  alone.  I 
fancy  I'm  rather  better  than  most,  though." 

She  nodded. 

"You  won't  mind  admitting  —  to  me  —  that  you 
are  surprised?" 

"Astonished,"  he  said.  "To  descend  to  the  com- 
monplace, what  on  earth  do  you  want  me  to  go  to 
Paris  for?7' 

"I  will  tell  you,"  she  answered.  "Forget  for  a 
moment  the  Paris  that  you  know,  and  remember  the 
Paris  of  the  tourist." 

"Painful,"  he  answered;  "but  it  is  done." 


120  THE  MISSIONER 

"The  Hotel  de  Luxe!" 
"I  know  it  well." 

"There  are  a  race  of  creatures  there,  small, 
parasitical  insects,  who  hang  about  the  hall  and  the 
boulevard  outside  —  guides  they  call  themselves." 

"  'Show  you  something  altogether  new  this  even- 
ing, Captain,'  "  he  quoted.  "  Yes;  I  know  them." 

"There  is,  or  was,  one,"  she  continued,  "who  goes 
by  the  name  of  Thomas  Johnson.  He  is  undersized; 
he  has  red  cheeks,  and  puffy  brown  eyes.  He  used 
to  wear  a  glazed  black  hat,  and  he  speaks  every 
language  without  an  accent." 

"I  should  know  the  beast  anywhere,"  he  declared. 

"Find  out  if  he  is  there  still.  Let  him  take  you 
out.  Don't  lose  sight  of  him  —  and  write  to  me." 

"To-morrow  night,"  he  said,  "I  will  renew  my 
youth.  I  will  search  for  him  on  the  boulevards, 
and  see  the  sights  which  make  a  gay  dog  of  the 
travelling  Briton." 

She  nodded. 

"You're  a  good  sort,  Gilbert,"  she  said  simply. 
"Thanks!" 


CHAPTER  XV 

ON  THE  SPREE 

HIGH  up  on  the  seventh  floor  of  one  of  London's 
newest  and  loftiest  buildings,  a  young  man 
sat  writing  in  a  somewhat  barely  furnished  office. 
He  wrote  deliberately,  and  with  the  air  of  one  who 
thoroughly  enjoyed  his  occupation.  The  place  had 
a  bookish  aspect  —  the  table  was  strewn  with  maga- 
zines and  books  of  reference;  piles  of  literature  of 
a  varied  order  stood,  in  the  absence  of  bookshelves, 
against  the  wall.  The  young  man  himself,  how- 
ever, was  the  most  interesting  object  in  the  room. 
He  was  big  and  dark  and  rugged.  There  was 
strength  in  his  square-set  shoulders,  in  the  com- 
pression of  his  lips,  even  in  the  way  his  finger  guided 
the  pen  across  the  paper.  He  was  thoroughly 
absorbed  in  his  task.  Nevertheless  he  raised  his 
head  at  a  somewhat  unusual  sound.  The  lift  had 
swung  up  to  his  floor,  he  heard  the  metal  gate  thrown 
open.  There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  Macheson 
walked  in. 

"Victor,  by  glory!" 

Down  went  the  pen,  and  Richard  Holderness  stood 
up  at  his  desk  with  outstretched  hands.  Macheson 


122  THE  MISSIONER 

grasped  them  heartily  and  seated  himself  on  the 
edge  of  the  table. 

"It's  good  to  see  you,  Dick/'  he  deelared,  "like 
coming  back  to  the  primitive  forces  of  nature,  un- 
changed, unchanging.  The  sight  of  you's  enough 
to  stop  a  revolution." 

"You're  feeling  like  that,  are  you?"  his  friend 
answered,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  Macheson's  face. 
"Yes,  I  see  you  are.  Go  ahead!  Or  will  you  smoke 
first?" 

Macheson  produced  his  pipe,  and  his  host  a  great 
tin  of  honeydew.  Macheson  helped  himself  slowly. 
He  seemed  to  be  trying  to  gain  time. 

"Blessed  compact,  ours,"  the  giant  remarked, 
leaning  back  in  his  chair.  "No  probing  for  confi- 
dences, no  silly  questions.  Out  with  it!" 

"I've  started  wrong,"  Macheson  said.  "I'll  have 
to  go  back  on  my  tracks  a  bit  anyway." 

Holderness  grunted  affably. 

"Nothing  like  mistakes,"  he  remarked.  "Best 
discipline  in  the  world." 

"I  started  on  a  theory,"  Macheson  continued 
thoughtfully.  "It  didn't  pan  out.  The  people  I 
have  been  trying  to  get  at  are  better  left  alone." 

"Exactly  why?"  Holderness  asked. 

"I'll  tell  you,"  Macheson  answered.  "You  know 
I've  seen  a  bit  of  what  we  call  village  life.  Their 
standard  isn't  high  enough,  of  course.  Things  come 
too  easily,  their  noses  are  too  close  to  the  ground. 
They  are  moderately  sober,  moderately  industrious, 
but  the  sameness  of  life  is  at  work  all  the  time.  It 
makes  machines  of  the  factory  hands,  animals  of  the 
country  folk.  I  knew  that  before  I  started.  I 


ON  THE  SPREE  123 

thought  I  could  lift  their  heads  a  little.     It's  too 
big  a  task  for  me,  Dick." 

"Of  course,"  Holderness  assented.  "You  can't 
graft  on  to  dead  wood." 

"They  live  decent  lives  —  most  of  them,"  Mache- 
son  continued  thoughtfully.  "They  can't  understand 
that  any  change  is  needed,  no  more  can  their  land- 
lords, or  their  clergy.  A  mechanical  performance 
of  the  Christian  code  seems  all  that  any  one  expects 
from  them.  Dick,  it's  all  they're  capable  of.  You 
can't  alter  laws.  You  can't  create  intelligence. 
You  can't  teach  these  people  spirituality." 

"As  well  try  to  teach  'em  to  fly,"  Holderness 
answered.  "I  could  have  told  you  so  before,  if  it 
had  been  of  any  use.  What  about  these  Welshmen, 
though?" 

"It's  hysteria,"  Macheson  declared.  "If  you  can 
get  through  the  hide,  you  can  make  the  emotions 
run  riot,  stir  them  into  a  frenzy.  It's  a  debauch. 
I've  been  there  to  see.  The  true  spiritual  life  is 
partly  intellectual." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  now?"  Holderness 
asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  Macheson  answered.  "I  haven't 
finished  yet.  Dick,  curse  all  women!" 

The  giant  looked  thoughtful. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said  simply. 

Macheson  swung  himself  from  the  table.  He 
walked  up  and  down  the  room. 

"It  isn't  serious,"  he  declared.  "It  isn't  even 
definite.  But  it's  like  a  perfume,  or  a  wonderful 
chord  of  music,  or  the  call  of  the  sea  to  an  inland- 
bred  viking!  It's  under  my  heel,  Dick,  but  I 


124  THE  MISSIONER 

crush  it.  I  came  away  from  Leicestershire  because 
I  was  afraid." 

"Does  she — exist?"  Holderness  asked. 

"Not  for  me,"  Macheson  declared  hurriedly. 
"  Don't  think  that.  I  shouldn't  have  mentioned  it, 
but  for  our  compact." 

Holderness  nodded. 

"Bad  luck,"  he  said.  "This  craving  for  some- 
thing we  haven't  got  —  can't  have  —  I  wish  I 
could  find  the  germ.  The  world  should  go  free  of 
it  for  a  generation.  We'd  build  empires,  we'd 
reconstruct  society.  It's  a  deadly  germ,  though, 
Victor,  and  it's  the  princes  of  the  world  who  suffer 
most.  There's  only  one  antidote  — work!" 

"Give  me  some,"  Macheson  begged. 

The  giant  looked  at  him  thoughtfully. 

"Right,"  he  answered,  "but  not  to-day.  Clothes 
up  in  town?" 

Macheson  nodded. 

"We'll  go  on  the  bust,"  Holderness  declared. 
"I've  been  dying  for  a  spree!  We'll  have  it. 
Where  are  you  staying?" 

"My  old  rooms,"  Macheson  answered.  "I  looked 
in  on  my  way  from  the  station  and  found  them 
empty." 

"Capital!  We're  close  together.  Come  on!  We'll 
do  the  West  End  like  two  gay  young  bucks.  Five 
o'clock,  isn't  it?  We'll  walk  up  Regent  Street  and 
have  an  'aperitif  at  Biflore's.  Wait  till  I  brush 
my  hat." 

Macheson  made  no  difficulties,  but  he  was  puzzled. 
Holderness  he  knew  well  enough  had  no  leanings 
towards  the  things  which  he  proposed  with  so  much 


ON  THE  SPREE  125 

enthusiasm.  Was  it  a  pilgrimage  they  were  to  start 
upon  —  or  what?  After  all,  why  need  he  worry? 
He  was  content  to  go  his  friend's  way. 

So  they  walked  up  Regent  Street,  bright  with 
the  late  afternoon  sunshine,  threading  their  way 
through  the  throngs  of  sauntering  men  and  women 
gazing  into  the  shops  —  and  at  one  another!  At 
Biflore's  Macheson  would  have  felt  out  of  his  ele- 
ment but  for  Holderness'  self-possession.  He  had 
the  air  of  going  through  what  might  have  been  an 
everyday  performance,  ordered  vermouth  mixed, 
lit  a  cigarette,  leaned  back  at  his  ease  upon  the 
cushioned  seat,  and  told  with  zest  and  point  a 
humorous  story.  There  were  women  there,  a  dozen 
or  more,  some  alone,  some  in  little  groups,  women 
smartly  enough  dressed,  good-looking,  too,  and 
prosperous,  with  gold  purses  and  Paris  hats,  yet  — 
lacking  something.  Macheson  did  not  ask  himself 
what  it  was.  He  felt  it;  he  knew,  too,  that  Holder- 
ness  meant  him  to  feel  it.  The  shadow  of  tragedy 
was  there  —  the  world's  tragedy.  .  .  . 

They  went  back  to  their  rooms  to  dress  and  met 
at  a  popular  restaurant  —  one  of  the  smartest.  Here 
Macheison  began  to  recover  his  spirits.  The  music 
was  soft  yet  inspiring,  the  women  —  there  were  none 
alone  here  —  were  well  dressed,  and  pleasant  to  look 
at,  the  sound  of  their  laughter  and  the  gay  murmur 
of  conversation  was  like  a  delightful  undernote.  The 
dinner  and  wine  were  good.  Holderness  seemed  to 
know  very  well  how  to  choose  both.  Macheson  be- 
gan to  feel  the  depression  of  a  few  hours  ago  slipping 
away  from  him.  Once  or  twice  he  laughed  softly  to 
himself.  Holderness  looked  at  him  questioningly. 


126  THE  MISSIONER 

"You  should  have  been  with  me  for  the  last  fort- 
night, Dick,"  he  remarked,  smiling.  "The  lady  of 
the  manor  at  Thorpe  didn't  approve  of  me,  and  I 
had  to  sleep  for  two  nights  in  a  gamekeeper's 
shelter." 

"Didn't  approve  of  you  to  such  an  extent?" 
Holderness  remarked.  "Was  she  one  of  those  old 
country  frumps  —  all  starch  and  prejudice?" 

Then  for  a  moment  the  heel  was  lifted,  and  a  rush 
of  memory  kept  him  dumb.  He  felt  the  tearing  of 
the  blood  in  his  veins,  the  burning  of  his  cheeks,  the 
wild,  delicious  sense  of  an  exaltation,  indefinable, 
mysterious.  He  was  tongue-tied,  suddenly  appre- 
hensive of  himself  and  his  surroundings.  He 
felt  somehow  nearer  to  her  —  it  was  her  atmosphere, 
this.  Was  he  weaker  than  his  friend  —  had  he,  in- 
deed, more  to  fear?  He  raised  his  glass  mechanically 
to  his  lips,  and  the  soft  fire  of  the  amber  wine  soothed 
whilst  it  disquieted  him.  Again  he  wondered  at 
his  friend's  whim  in  choosing  this  manner  of  spending 
their  evening. 

"No!"  he  said  at  last,  and  he  was  surprised  to 
find  his  voice  composed  and  natural,  "the  mistress 
of  Thorpe  is  not  in  the  least  that  sort.  Thorpe  is 
almost  a  model  village,  and  of  course  there  is  the 
church,  and  a  very  decent  fellow  for  vicar.  I  am 
not  at  all  sure  that  she  was  not  right.  I  must  have 
seemed  a  fearful  interloper." 

Holderness  stretched  his  long  limbs  under  the 
table  and  laughed  softly. 

"Well,"  he  declared,  "it  was  a  hare-brained 
scheme.  Theoretically,  I  believe  you  were  right. 
There's  nothing  more  dangerous  than  content.  Sort 


ON  THE  SPREE  127 

of  armour  you  can't  get  through.  .  .  .Come,  we 
mustn't  miss  the  ballet." 

They  threaded  their  way  down  the  room.  Sud- 
denly Macheson  stopped  short.  He  was  passing  a 
table  set  back  in  a  recess,  and  occupied  by  two  per- 
sons. The  girl,  who  wore  a  hat  and  veil,  and  whose 
simple  country  clothes  were  conspicuous,  was  staring 
at  him  with  something  like  fear  in  her  eyes.  Her 
cheeks  were  flushed;  her  lips  parted,  she  was  leaning 
forward  as  though  to  call  her  companion's  attention 
to  Macheson's  approach.  Macheson  glanced  towards 
him  with  a  sudden  impulse  of  indignant  apprehen- 
sion. It  was  Stephen  Hurd,  in  irreproachable 
evening  clothes  save  only  for  his  black  tie,  and  his 
companion  was  Letty. 

Macheson  stopped  before  the  table.  He  scarcely 
knew  what  to  say  or  how  to  say  it,  but  he  was  deter- 
mined not  to  be  intimidated  by  Hurd's  curt  nod. 

"So  you  are  up  in  town,  Letty,"  he  said  gravely. 
"  Is  your  mother  with  you?  " 

The  girl  giggled  hysterically. 

"Oh,  no!"  she  declared.  "Mother  can't  bear 
travelling.  A  lot  of  us  came  up  this  morning  at 
six  o'clock  on  a  day  excursion,  six  shillings  each." 

"And  what  time  does  the  train  go  back?"  Mache- 
son asked  quickly. 

"At  twelve  o'clock,"  the  girl  answered,  "or  as 
soon  afterwards  as  they  can  get  it  off.  It  was 
terribly  full  coming  up." 

Macheson  was  to  some  extent  relieved.  At  any 
rate  there  was  nothing  further  that  he  could  do. 
He  bent  over  the  girl  kindly. 

"I  hope  you  have  had  a  nice  day,"  he  said,  "and 


128  THE  MISSIONER       , 

won't  be  too  tired  when  you  get  home.  These  ex- 
cursions are  rather  hard  work.  Remember  me  to 
your  mother." 

He  exchanged  a  civil  word  with  the  girl's  com- 
panion, who  was  taciturn  almost  to  insolence.  Then 
he  passed  on  and  joined  Holderness,  who  was  waiting 
near  the  door. 

"An  oddly  assorted  couple,  your  friends,"  he 
remarked,  as  they  struggled  into  their  coats. 

Macheson  nodded. 

"The  girl  was  my  landlady's  daughter  at  Thorpe, 
and  the  young  man's  the  son  of  the  agent  there," 
he  said. 

"Engaged?"  Holderness  asked. 

"I'm  —  afraid  not,"  Macheson  answered.  "She's 
up  on  an  excursion  —  for  the  day  —  goes  back  at 
twelve." 

"I  suppose  he's  a  decent  fellow  —  the  agent's  son?" 
Holderness  remarked.  "She  seems  such  a  child." 

"I  suppose  he  is,"  Macheson  repeated.  "I  don't 
care  for  him  very  much,  Dick;  I  suppose  I'm  an 
evil-minded  person,  but  I  hate  leaving  them." 

Holderness  looked  back  into  the  restaurant. 

"You  can't  interfere,"  he  said.  "It's  probably  a 
harmless  frolic  enough.  Come  011!" 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  NIGHT  SIDE  OF  LONDON 

stalls  left,"  Holderness  declared,  turning 
away  from  the  box  office  at  the  Alhambra. 
"We'll  go  in  the  promenade.  We  can  find  a  chair 
there  if  we  want  to  sit  down." 

Macheson  followed  him  up  the  stairs  and  into  the 
heavily  carpeted  promenade.  His  memory  of  the 
evening,  a  memory  which  clung  to  him  for  long 
afterwards,  seemed  like  a  phantasmagoria  of  thrilling 
music,  a  stage  packed  with  marvellously  dressed 
women,  whose  movements  were  blended  with  the 
music  into  one  voluptuous  chorus  —  a  blaze  of  colour 
not  wholly  without  its  artistic  significance,  and 
about  him  an  air  heavy  with  tobacco  smoke  and 
perfumes,  a  throng  of  moving  people,  more  women 

—  many  more  women.     A  girl  spoke  to  Holderness, 

—  a  girl  heavily  rouged  but  not  ill-looking,  dressed 
in  a  blue  muslin  gown  and  large  black  hat.     Holder- 
ness    bent    towards    her    deferentially.     His    voice 
seemed  to  take  to  itself  its  utmost  note  of  courtesy, 
he  answered  her  inquiry  pleasantly,  and  accepted  a 
glance  at  her  programme.     The  girl  looked  puzzled, 
but  they  talked  together  for  several  moments  of 
casual  things,     Then  Holderness  lifted  his  hat. 


130  THE  MISSIONER 

"My  friend  and  I  are  tired,"  he  said.  "We  are 
going  to  look  for  a  seat." 

She  bowed  and  they  strolled  on  down  the  prome- 
nade, finding  some  chairs  at  the  further  end.  The 
dresses  of  the  women  brushed  their  feet  and  the 
perfume  from  the  clothes  was  stronger  even  than 
the  odour  from  the  clouds  of  tobacco  smoke  which 
hung  about  the  place.  Macheson,  in  whom  were 
generations  of  puritanical  impulses,  found  himself 
shrinking  back  in  his  corner.  Holderness  turned 
towards  him  frowning. 

"No  superiority,  Victor,"  he  said.  "These  are 
your  fellow-creatures.  Don't  look  at  them  as  though 
you'd  come  down  from  the  clouds." 

"It  isn't  that,"  Macheson  answered,  "it's  a 
matter  of  taste." 

"Taste!  Rot!"  Holderness  answered.  "The 
factory  girl's  hat  offends  my  taste,  but  I  don't 
shrink  away  from  her." 

A  girl,  in  passing,  stumbled  against  his  foot. 
Holderness  stood  up  as  he  apologized. 

"I  am  really  very  sorry,"  he  said.  "No  one  with 
feet  like  mine  ought  to  sit  down  in  a  public  place.  I 
hope  you  haven't  torn  your  dress?" 

"It  really  doesn't  matter,"  the  girl  answered.  "I 
ought  to  have  looked  where  I  was  going." 

"In  which  case,"  Holderness  remarked,  with  a 
laugh,  "you  could  not  have  failed  to  see  my  feet." 

There  were  two  empty  chairs  at  their  table.  The 
girl  glanced  towards  them  and  hesitated. 

"Do  you  mind  if  we  sit  down  here  for  a  minute," 
she  asked,  "my  friend  and  I?  We  are  rather 
tired." 


THE  NIGHT  SIDE  OF  LONDON        131 

He  drew  the  chairs  towards  them. 

"  By  all  means,"  he  answered  courteously.  "  Your 
friend  does  look  tired." 

The  party  arranged  itself.  Holderness  called  to 
a  waiter  and  gave  an  order. 

"My  friend  and  I,"  he  remarked,  indicating 
Macheson,  who  was  fiercely  uncomfortable  and 
struggling  hard  not  to  show  it,  "are  disappointed 
that  we  could  not  get  stalls.  We  wanted  to  see  La 
Guerrero  and  this  wonderful  conjurer." 

"The  place  is  full  every  night,"  the  girl  answered 
listlessly.  "La  Guerrero  comes  on  at  ten  o'clock, 
you  can  see  her  from  the  front  of  the  promenade 
easily.  You  don't  often  come  here,  do  you?" 

"Not  very  often,"  Holderness  answered.  "And 
you?" 

"Every  night,"  the  girl  answered  in  a  dull  tone. 

"That  must  be  monotonous,"  he  said  kindly. 

"It  is,"  she  admitted. 

They  talked  for  a  few  minutes  longer,  or  rather  it 
was  Holderness  who  mostly  talked,  and  the  others 
who  listened.  It  struck  Macheson  as  curious  that 
his  friend  should  find  it  so  easy  to  strike  the  note 
of  their  conversation  and  keep  it  there,  as  though 
without  any  definite  effort  he  could  assume  control 
over  even  the  thoughts  of  these  girls,  to  whom  he 
talked  with  such  easy  courtesy.  He  told  a  funny 
story  and  they  all  laughed  naturally  and  heartily. 
Macheson  had  an  idea  that  the  girls  had  forgotten 
for  the  moment  exactly  where  they  were.  Some- 
thing in  their  faces,  something  which  had  almost 
terrified  him  at  their  first  coming,  had  relaxed,  if  it 
had  not  passed  wholly  away.  At  the  sound  of  a  few 


132  THE  MISSIONER 

bars  of  music  one  of  them  leaned  almost  eagerly 
forward. 

"There,"  she  said,  "if  you  want  to  see  La  Guerrero 
you  must  hurry.  She  is  coming  on  now." 

The  two  young  men  rose  to  their  feet.  One  of  the 
girls  looked  wistfully  at  Holderness,  but  nothing  was 
said  beyond  the  ordinary  farewells. 

"Thank  you  so  much  for  telling  us,"  Holderness 
said.  "Come  along,  Victor.  It  is  La  Guerrero." 

Macheson  breathed  more  freely  when  once  they 
were  in  the  throng.  They  watched  the  Spanish 
dancer  with  her  exquisite  movements,  sinuous,  full 
of  grace.  Holderness  especially  applauded  loudly. 
Afterwards  they  found  seats  in  the  front  and  re- 
mained there  for  the  rest  of  the  performance. 

Out  in  the  street  they  hesitated.  Holderness 
passed  his  arm  through  his  companion's. 

"Supper!"  he  declared.  "This  way!  Did  you 
know  what  a  man  about  town  I  was,  Victor?  Ah! 
but  one  must  learn,  and  life  isn't  all  roses  and 
honey.  One  must  learn!" 

They  threaded  their  way  through  the  streets, 
crowded  with  hansoms,  electric  broughams,  and 
streams  of  foot  passengers.  Holderness  led  the  way 
to  a  sombre-looking  building,  and  into  a  room  barely 
lit  save  for  the  rose-shaded  lamps  upon  the  tables. 
Macheson  gasped  as  he  entered.  Nearly  every  table 
was  occupied  by  women  in  evening  dress,  women 
alone  —  waiting.  Holderness  glanced  around  quite 
unconcernedly  as  he  gave  up  his  coat  and  hat  to  a 
waiter. 

"  Feeling  shy,  Victor?  "  he  asked,  smiling.  "Never 
mind.  We'll  find  a  table  to  ourselves  all  right." 


THE  NIGHT  SIDE  OF  LONDON        133 

They  sat  in  a  corner.  The  girls  chattered  and 
talked  across  them  —  often  at  them.  A  French- 
woman, superbly  gowned  in  white  lace,  and  with  a 
long  rope  of  pearls  around  her  neck,  paused  as  she 
passed  their  table.  She  carried  a  Pomeranian  under 
her  arm  and  held  it  out  towards  them. 

"See!  My  little  dog!"  she  exclaimed.  "He  bite 
you.  Messieurs  are  lonely?" 

"Alas!  Of  necessity,"  Holderness  answered  in 
French.  "  Madame  is  too  kind.  " 

She  passed  on,  laughing.  Macheson  looked  across 
the  table  almost  fiercely. 

"What  are  you  doing  it  for,  Dick?"  he  exclaimed. 
"What  does  it  mean?" 

His  friend  looked  across  at  him  steadfastly. 

"  Victor,"  he  said,  "  I  want  you  to  understand. 
You  are  an  enthusiast,  a  reformer,  a  prophet  of  lost 
causes.  I  want  you  to  know  the  truth  if  you  can 
see  it.  There  are  many  sides  to  life." 

"What  am  I  to  learn  of  this?"  Macheson  asked, 
almost  passionately. 

"If  I  told  you,"  Holderness  answered,  "the  lesson 
would  only  be  half  learnt.  Sit  tight  and  don't  be  a 
fool.  Drink  your  wine.  Mademoiselle  in  violet 
there  wants  to  flirt  with  you." 

"Shall  I  ask  her  to  join  us?"  Macheson  demanded 
with  wasted  satire. 

"You  might  do  worse,"  Holderness  answered 
calmly.  "She  could  probably  teach  you  something." 

It  was  a  dull  evening,  and  many  of  the  tables  re- 
mained unoccupied  —  save  for  the  one  waiting  figure. 
The  women,  tired  of  looking  towards  the  door, 
were  smoking  cigarettes,  twirling  their  bracelets, 


134  THE  MISSIONER 

yawning,  and  looking  around  the  room.  Many 
a  mute  invitation  reached  the  two  young  men,  but 
Holderness  seemed  to  have  lost  his  sociability.  His 
face  had  grown  harder  and  he  seemed  glad  when 
their  meal  was  over  and  they  were  free  to  depart. 
In  the  hall  below  they  had  to  wait  for  their  over- 
coats. Macheson  strolled  idly  towards  the  entrance 
of  another  supper  room  on  the  ground  floor,  and 
looked  in.  An  exclamation  broke  from  his  lips. 
He  turned  towards  Holderness. 

"You  see  the  time,"  he  exclaimed,  "and  they  are 
here!  Those  two!" 

Holderness  nodded  gravely. 

"The  girl  has  been  crying,"  he  said,  "and  there 
is  an  A  B  C  on  the  table.  It's  up  to  you,  Victor. 
We  may  both  have  to  take  a  hand  in  the  game.  No ! 
I  wouldn't  go  in.  Wait  till  they  come  out!" 

They  stood  in  the  throng,  jostled,  cajoled,  be- 
sought. At  last  the  two  rose  and  came  towards 
the  door.  Letty  had  dried  her  eyes,  but  she  looked 
still  pale  and  terrified.  Hurd,  on  the  contrary,  was 
flushed  as  though  with  wine.  Macheson  took  her  by 
the  arm  as  she  passed. 

"Letty,"  he  said  gravely,  "have  you  missed  your 
train?" 

She  gave  a  stifled  cry  and  shrank  back,  when 
she  saw  who  it  was.  However,  she  recovered  her- 
self quickly. 

"Mr.  Macheson!"  she  exclaimed.  "How  you 
startled  me!  I  didn't  expect — to  see  you  again." 

"About  this  train,  Letty?"  he  repeated. 

"Mr.  Hurd's  watch  stopped,"  she  declared,  her 
eyes  filling  once  more  with  tears.  "He  thought  it 


THE  NIGHT  SIDE  OF  LONDON         135 

was  eleven  o'clock, —  and  it  was  ten  minutes  past 
twelve.  I  don't  know  what  mother  will  say,  I  ain 
sure." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  round  nervously. 

"  Mr.  Kurd  is  going  to  take  me  to  some  friends  of 
his,"  she  answered.  "You  see  it  was  his  fault,  so 
he  has  promised  to  see  mother  and  explain." 

Kurd  pushed  angrily  forward. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  to  Macheson,  "have  you 
been  following  us  about?" 

"I  have  not,"  Macheson  answered  calmly.  "I 
am  very  glad  to  have  come  across  you,  though." 

"Sorry  I  can't  return  the  compliment,"  Kurd 
remarked.  "Come,  Letty." 

A  girl  who  was  passing  tapped  him  on  the  arm. 
She  was  dressed  in  blue  silk,  with  a  large  picture 
hat,  and  she  was  smoking  a  cigarette. 

"Hullo,  Stephen!"  she  exclaimed.  "Edith  wants 
to  see  you.  Are  you  coming  round  to-night?" 

Hurd  muttered  something  under  his  breath  and 
moved  away.  Letty  looked  at  him  with  horror. 

"Stephen!"  she  exclaimed.  "You  can't  —  you 
don't  mean  to  say  that  you  know  —  any  of  these?  " 

She  was  trembling  in  every  limb.  He  tried  to 
pass  his  arm  through  hers. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Letty,"  he  said.  "It's  time 
we  went,  or  my  friends  will  have  gone  to  bed." 

She  looked  at  him  with  wide-open  eyes.  Her  lips 
were  quivering.  It  was  as  though  she  saw  some 
new  thing  in  his  face. 

"Your  friends,"  she  murmured,  "are  they  — that 
sort?  Oh!  I  am  afraid." 


136  THE  MISSIONER 

She  clung  to  Machesori.  People  were  beginning 
to  notice  them.  He  led  her  out  into  the  street. 
Kurd  followed,  angrily  protesting.  Holclerness  was 
close  behind. 

"I  say,  you  know,"  Hurd  began,  with  his  arm  on 
Macheson's  shoulder.  Macheson  shook  it  off. 

"Mr.  Hurd,"  he  said,  "at  the  risk  of  seeming  im- 
pertinent, I  must  ask  you  precisely  where  you  in- 
tend taking  this  girl  to-night?" 

"What  the  devil  business  is  it  of  yours?"  Hurd 
answered  angrily. 

"Tell  me,  all  the  same,"  Macheson  persisted. 

Hurd  passed  his  arm  through  Letty's. 

"Come,  Letty,"  he  said,  "we  will  take  this 
hansom." 

The  girl  was  only  half  willing.  Macheson  de- 
clined to  let  them  go. 

"No!"  he  said,  "I  will  have  my  question 
answered." 

Hurd  turned  as  though  to  strike  him,  but  Holder- 
ness  intervened,  head  and  shoulders  taller  than  the 
other. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  "that  we  will  have  my  friend's 
question  answered." 

Hurd  was  almost  shaking  with  rage,  but  he 
answered. 

"To  some  friends  in  Cambridge  Terrace,"  he  said 
sullenly.  "  Number  eighteen." 

"You  will  not  object,"  Macheson  said,  "if  I  ac- 
company you  there?" 

"I'll  see  you  damned  first,"  Hurd  answered 
savagely.  "Get  in,  Letty." 

The  girl  hesitated.     She  turned  to  Macheson. 


THE  NIGHT  SIDE  OF  LONDON         137 

11 1  should  like  to  go  to  the  station  and  wait," 
she  declared. 

"I  think/'  Macheson  said,  "that  you  had  better 
trust  yourself  to  me  and  my  friend." 

"I  am  sure  of  it,"  Holderness  added  calmly. 

She  put  her  hand  in  Macheson's.  She  was  as  pale 
as  death  and  avoided  looking  at  Hurd.  He  took 
a  quick  step  towards  her. 

"Very  well,  young  lady,"  he  said.  "If  you  go 
now,  you  understand  that  I  shall  never  see  you 
again." 

She  began  to  cry  again. 

"I  wish,"  she  murmured,  "that  I  had  never  seen 
you  at  all  —  never!" 

He  turned  on  his  heel.  A  row  was  impossible. 
It  occurred  to  him  that  a  man  of  the  world  would 
face  such  a  position  calmly. 

"Very  good,"  he  said,  "we  will  leave  it  at  that." 

He  paused  to  light  a  cigarette,  and  strolled  back 
down  the  street  towards  the  restaurant  which  they 
had  just  left.  Letty  was  crying  now  in  good  earnest. 
The  two  young  men  looked  at  one  another  in  some- 
thing like  dismay.  Then  Holderness  began  to 
laugh  quietly. 

"You're  a  nice  sort  of  Don  Quixote  to  spend  an 
evening  with,"  he  remarked  softly. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  VICTIMS  OF  SOCIETY 

girl  was  still  crying,  softly  but  persistently. 
•*•  She  caught  hold  of  Macheson's  arm. 

"If  you  please,  I  think  I  had  better  go  back  to 
Stephen,"  she  said.  "Do  you  think  I  could  find 
him?" 

"I  think  you  had  much  better  not,  Letty,"  he 
answered.  "He  ought  not  to  have  let  you  miss 
your  train.  My  friend  here  and  I  are  going  to  look 
after  you." 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,"  the  girl  said  listlessly, 
"but  it  doesn't  matter  much  what  becomes  of  me 
now.  Mother  will  never  forgive  me  —  and  the 
others  will  all  know  —  that  I  missed  the  train." 

"We  must  think  of  some  way  of  putting  that  all 
right,"  Macheson  declared.  "I  only  wish  that  I 
had  some  relations  in  London.  Can  you  suggest 
anything,  Dick?" 

"I  can  take  the  young  lady  to  some  decent 
rooms,"  Holderness  answered.  "The  landlady's  an 
old  friend  of  mine.  She'll  be  as  right  as  rain  there.'' 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

"I'd  as  soon  walk  about  the  streets,"  she  said 


THE  VICTIMS  OF  SOCIETY  139 

pathetically.  "Mother'll  never  listen  to  me  —  or 
the  others.  Some  of  them  saw  me  with  Stephen, 
and  they  said  things.  I  think  I'll  go  to  the  station 
and  wait  till  the  five  o'clock  train." 

They  were  walking  slowly  up  towards  Piccadilly. 
A  fine  rain  had  begun  to  fall,  and  already  the  pave- 
ments were  shining.  Neither  of  them  had  an 
umbrella,  and  Letty's  hat,  with  its  cheap  flowers  and 
ribbon,  showed  signs  of  collapse.  Suddenly  Mache- 
son  had  an  idea. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "supposing  you  spent  the 
night  at  Miss  Thorpe-Hatton's  house  in  Berkeley 
Square  —  no  one  could  say  anything  then,  could 
they?" 

The  girl  looked  up  with  a  sudden  gleam  of  hope. 

"No!  I  don't  suppose  they  could,"  she  admitted; 
"but  I  don't  know  where  it  is,  and  I  don't  suppose 
they'd  take  me  in  anyway." 

"I  know  where  it  is,"  Macheson  declared,  "and 
we'll  see  about  their  taking  you  in.  I  believe  Miss 
Thorpe-Hatton  may  be  there  herself.  Stop  that 
fourw heeler,  Dick." 

They  climbed  into  a  passing  cab,  and  Macheson 
directed  the  driver.  The  girl  was  beginning  to  lose 
confidence  again. 

"The  house  is  sure  to  be  shut  up,"  she  said. 

"There  will  be  a  caretaker."  Macheson  declared 
hopefully.  "We'll  manage  it,  never  fear.  I  believe 
Miss  Thorpe-Hatton  is  there  herself." 

Letty  was  trembling  with  excitement  and  fear. 

"I'm  scared  to  death  of  her,"  she  admitted. 
"She's  so  beautiful,  and  she  looks  at  you  always 
as  though  you  were  something  a  long  way  off." 


140  THE  MISSIONER 

Macheson  was  suddenly  silent.  A  rush  of  memo- 
ries surged  into  his  brain.  He  had  sworn  to  keep 
away!  This  was  a  different  matter,  an  errand  of 
mercy.  Nevertheless  he  would  see  her,  if  only  for 
a  moment.  His  heart  leaped  like  a  boy's.  He 
looked  eagerly  out  of  the  window.  Already  they 
were  entering  Berkeley  Square.  The  cab  stopped. 

Macheson  looked  upwards.  There  were  lights 
in  many  of  the  windows,  and  a  small  electric  broug- 
ham, with  a  tall  footman  by  the  side  of  the  driver, 
was  waiting  opposite  the  door. 

"The  house  is  open,"  he  declared.  ''Don't  be 
afraid,  Letty." 

The  girl  descended  and  clung  to  his  arm  as  they 
crossed  the  pavement. 

"I  shall  wait  here  for  you,"  Holderness  said. 
"Good  luck  to  you,  and  good  night,  young  lady!" 

Macheson  rang  the  bell.  The  door  was  opened 
at  once  by  a  footman,  who  eyed  them  in  cold 
surprise. 

"We  wish  to  see  Miss  Thorpe-Hatton  for  two 
minutes,"  Macheson  said,  producing  his  card.  "It 
is  really  an  important  matter,  or  we  would  not 
disturb  her  at  such  an  hour.  She  is  at  home,  is 
she  not?" 

The  footman  looked  exceedingly  dubious.  He 
looked  from  the  card  to  Macheson,  and  from  Mach- 
eson to  the  girl,  and  he  didn't  seem  to  like  either 
of  them. 

"Miss  Thorpe-Hatton  has  just  returned  from  the 
opera,"  he  said,  "and  she  is  going  on  to  the  Coun- 
tess of  Annesley's  ball  directly.  Can't  you  come 
again  in  the  morning?" 


THE  VICTIMS  OF  SOCIETY  141 

"Quite  impossible,"  Macheson  declared  briskly. 
"I  am  sure  that  Miss  Thorpe-Hatton  will  see  me 
for  a  moment  if  you  take  that  card  up." 

The  footman  studied  Macheson  again,  and  was 
forced  to  admit  that  he  was  a  gentleman.  He  led 
the  waj7  into  a  small  morning-rooTi. 

"  Miss  Thorpe-Hatton  shall  have  your  card,  sir," 
he  said.  "  Kindly  take  a  seat." 

He  left  the  room.  Macheson  drew  up  a  chair  for 
Letty,  but  she  refused  it,  trembling. 

"Oh!  I  daren't  sit  down,  Mr.  Macheson,"  she  de- 
clared. "And  please — don't  say  that  I  wTas  with 
Mr.  Hurd.  I  know  he  wouldn't  like  it." 

"Probably  not,"  Macheson  answered,  "but  what 
am  I  to  say?" 

"Anything  —  anything  but  that,"  she  begged. 

Macheson  nodded  his  promise.  Then  the  door 
opened,  and  his  heart  seemed  to  stand  still.  She 
entered  the  room  in  all  the  glory  of  a  wonderful 
toilette;  she  wore  her  famous  ropes  of  pearls,  the 
spotless  white  of  her  gown  was  the  last  word  from 
the  subtlest  Parisian  workshop  of  the  day.  But 
it  was  not  these  things  that  counted.  Had  he  been 
dreaming,  he  wondered  a  moment  later,  or  had  that 
strange  smile  indeed  curved  her  lips,  that  marvellous 
light  indeed  flowed  from  her  eyes?  It  was  the  lady 
of  his  dreams  who  had  entered — it  was  a  very 
different  woman  who,  with  a  slight  frown  upon  her 
smooth  forehead,  was  looking  at  the  girl  who  stood 
trembling  by  Macheson's  side. 

"It  is  Mr.  Macheson,  is  it  not?"  she  said  calmly, 
"the  young  man  who  wanted  to  convert  my  villagers. 


142  THE  MISSIONER 

And  you  —  who  are  you?"  she  asked,  turning 
to  the  girl. 

"Letty  Foulton,  if  you  please,  ma'am/'  the  girl 
answered. 

" Foulton!  Letty  Foulton!"  Wilhelmina  repeated. 

"Yes,  ma'am!  My  brother  has  Onetree  farm," 
the  girl  continued. 

Wilhelmina  inclined  her  head. 

"Ah,  yes!"  she  remarked,  "I  remember  now. 
And  what  do  you  two  want  of  me  at  this  hour  of  the 
night?"  she  asked  frigidly. 

"If  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  explain,"  Macheson 
interrupted  eagerly.  "Letty  came  up  from  Thorpe 
this  morning  on  an  excursion  train  which  returned 
at  midnight." 

Wilhelmina  glanced  at  the  clock.  It  was  five 
minutes  to  one. 

"Well?" 

"She  missed  it,"  Macheson  continued.  "It  was 
very  careless  and  very  wrong,  of  course,  but  the 
fact  remains  that  she  missed  it.  I  found  her  in 
great  distress.  She  had  lost  her  friends,  and  there 
is  no  train  back  to  Thorpe  till  the  morning.  Her 
brother  and  mother  are  very  strict,  and  all  her 
friends  who  came  from  Thorpe  will,  of  course,  know 
that  —  she  remained  in  London.  The  position,  as 
you  will  doubtless  realize,  is  a  serious  one  for  her." 

Wilhelmina  made  no  sign.  Nothing  in  her  face 
answered  in  any  way  the  silent  appeal  in  his. 

"I  happened  to  know,"  he  continued,  "that  you 
were  in  London,  so  I  ventured  to  bring  her  at  once 
to  you.  You  are  the  mistress  of  Thorpe,  and  in  our 
recent  conversation  I  remember  you  admitted  a 


143 

certain  amount  of  responsibility  as  regards  your 
people  there.  If  she  passes  the  night  under  your 
roof,  no  one  can  have  a  word  to  say.  It  will  save 
her  at  once  from  her  parent's  anger  and  the  unde- 
sirable comments  of  her  neighbours." 

Wilhelmina  glanced  once  more  towards  the  clock. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  she  remarked,  "that  a  con- 
siderable portion  of  the  night  has  already  passed." 

Both  Macheson  and  the  girl  were  silent.  Wilhel- 
mina for  the  first  time  addressed  the  latter. 

"Where  have  you  been  spending  the  evening?" 
she  asked. 

"We  had  dinner  and  went  to  a  place  of  entertain- 
ment," she  faltered.  "Then  we  had  supper,  and  I 
found  out  how  late  it  was." 

"Who  is  we?" 

The  girl's  face  was  scarlet.  She  did  not  answer. 
Wilhelmina  waited  for  a  moment  and  then  shrugged 
her  shoulders. 

"You  are  to  be  congratulated,"  she  said,  with 
cold  irony,  "upon  your  fortunate  meeting  with 
Mr.  Macheson." 

She  had  touched  the  bell,  and  a  footman  entered. 

"Reynolds,"  she  said,  "show  this  young  person 
into  the  housekeeper's  room,  and  ask  Mrs.  Brown 
to  take  charge  of  her  for  the  night." 

The  girl  moved  forward  impulsively,  but  some- 
thing in  Wilhelmina's  expression  checked  her  little 
speech  of  gratitude.  She  followed  the  man  from 
the  room  without  a  word.  Wilhelmina  also  turned 
towards  the  door. 

"You  will  excuse  me,"  she  said  coldly  to  Mache- 
son. "I  am  already  later  than  I  intended  to  be." 


144  THE  MISSIONER 

"I  can  only  apologize  for  disturbing  you  at  such 
an  hour,"  he  answered,  taking  up  his  hat.  "I  could 
think  of  nothing  else." 

She  looked  at  him  coldly. 

"The  girl's  parents,"  she  said,  "are  respectable 
people,  and  I  am  sheltering  her  for  their  sake.  But 
I  am  bound  to  say  that  I  consider  her  story  most 
unsatisfactory." 

They  were  standing  in  the  hall  —  she  had  paused 
on  her  way  out  to  conclude  her  sentence.  Her 
maid,  holding  out  a  wonderful  rose-lined  opera 
cloak,  was  standing  a  few  yards  away;  a  man- 
servant was  waiting  at  the  door  with  the  handle  in 
his  hand.  She  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  and  Mache- 
son  felt  the  challenge  which  flashed  out  from  them. 
She  imagined,  then,  that  he  had  been  the  girl's 
companion;  the  cold  disdain  of  her  manner  was  in 
itself  an  accusation. 

His  cheeks  burned  with  a  sort  of  shame.  She 
had  dared  to  think  this  of  him  —  and  that  after- 
wards he  should  have  brought  the  girl  to  her  to 
beg  for  shelter!  There  were  a  dozen  things  which 
he  ought  to  have  said,  which  came  flashing  from 
his  brain  to  find  themselves  somehow  imprisoned 
behind  his  tightly  locked  lips.  He  said  nothing. 
She  passed  slowly,  almost  unwillingly,  down  the  hall. 
The  maid  wrapped  her  coat  around  her  —  still  he 
stood  like  a  statue.  He  watched  her  pass  through 
the  opened  door  and  enter  the  electric  brougham. 
He  watched  it  even  glide  away.  Then  he,  too, 
went  and  joined  Holderness,  who  was  waiting 
outside. 

" Hail,  succourer  of  damsels  in  distress!"  Holder- 


THE  VICTIMS  OF  SOCIETY  145 

ness  called  out,  producing  his  cigar-case.  "Jolly 
glad  you  got  rid  of  her!  It  would  have  meant 
the  waiting-room  at  St.  Pancras  and  an  all-night 
sitting.  Smoke,  my  son,  and  we  will  walk  home  — 
unless  you  mind  this  bit  of  rain.  Was  her  lady- 
ship gracious?" 

"She  was  not,"  Macheson  answered  grimly,  "but 
she  is  keeping  the  girl.  I'd  like  to  walk,"  he  added, 
lighting  a  cigar. 

"A  very  elegant  lady,"  Holderness  remarked, 
"but  I  thought  she  looked  a  bit  up  in  the  air. 
Did  you  notice  her  pearls,  Victor?" 

Macheson  nodded. 

"Wonderful,  weren't  they?" 

"Yes.  She  wears  them  round  her  neck,  and 
these  —  these  wear  always  their  shame,"  he  added, 
pushing  gently  away  a  woman  who  clutched  at  his 
arm.  "Funny  thing,  isn't  it?  What  are  they 
worth?  Ten  thousand  pounds,  very  likely.  A  lot 
of  money  for  gewgaws  —  to  hang  upon  a  woman's 
body.  Shall  we  ever  have  a  revolution  in  London, 
do  you  think,  Victor?" 

"Who  knows?"  Macheson  answered  wearily. 
"Not  a  political  one,  perhaps,  but  the  other 
might  come.  The  sewers  underneath  are  pretty 
full." 

They  passed  along  in  silence  for  a  few  minutes. 
Neither  the  drizzling  rain  nor  the  lateness  of  the 
hour  could  keep  away  that  weary  procession  of  sad, 
staring-eyed  women,  who  seemed  to  come  from 
every  shadow,  and  vanish  Heaven  knows  where. 
Macheson  gripped  his  companion  by  the  arm. 

"Holderness,"    he   cried,    "for   God's   sake   let's 


146  THE  MISSIONER 

get  out  of  it.  I  shall  choke  presently.  We'll  take 
a  side  street." 

But  Holderness  held  his  arm  in  a  grip  of  iron. 

"No,"  he  said,  "  these  are  the  things  which  you 
must  feel.  I  want  you  to  feel  them.  I  mean  you 
to." 

"It's  heart-breaking,   Dick." 

Holderness  smiled  faintly. 

"I  know  how  you  feel,"  he  declared.  "I've 
gone  through  it  myself.  You  are  a  Christian, 
aren't  you  —  almost  an  orthodox  Christian?" 

"I  am  not  sure!" 

"Don't  waste  your  pity,  then,"  Holderness  de- 
clared. "God  will  look  after  these.  It's  the 
women  with  the  pearl  necklaces  and  the  scorn  in 
their  eyes  who're  looking  for  hell.  Your  friend 
in  the  electric  brougham,  for  instance.  Can't  you 
see  her  close  her  eyes  and  draw  away  her  skirts  if 
she  should  brush  up  against  one  of  these?" 

"It's  hard  to  blame  her,"  Macheson  declared. 

Holderness  looked  down  at  him  pityingly. 

"Man,"  he  said,  "you're  a  long  way  down  in 
the  valley.  You'll  have  to  climb.  Vice  and  virtue 
are  little  else  save  relative  terms.  They  number 
their  adherents  by  accident  rather  than  choice." 

"You  mean  that  it  is  all  a  matter  of  tempta- 
tion?" 

Holderness  laughed.  They  had  passed  into  the 
land  of  silent  streets.  Their  own  rooms  were  close 
at  hand. 

"Wait  a  little  time,"  he  said.  "Some  day  you'll 
understand." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
LETTY'S  DILEMMA 

'VT'OU  are  quite  sure,"  the  girl  said  anxiously, 
"that  Miss  Thorpe-Hatton  wants  to  see 
me?  You  see  there's  a  train  at  ten  o'clock  I  could 
catch." 

The  housekeeper  looked  up  from  the  menu  she 
was  writing,  and  tapped  the  table  impatiently  with 
her  pencil. 

"My  dear  child,"  she  said,  "is  it  likely  I  should 
keep  you  here  without  orders?  We  have  sent  a 
telegram  to  your  mother,  and  you  are  to  wait  until 
the  mistress  is  ready  to  see  you." 

"What  time  does  she  generally  get  down?" 
Letty  asked. 

"Any  time,"  Mrs.  Brown  answered,  resuming  her 
task.  "She  was  back  early  last  night,  only  stayed 
an  hour  at  the  ball,  so  she  may  send  for  you  at  any 
moment.  Don't  fidget  about  so,  there's  a  good  girl. 
I'm  nervous  this  morning.  We've  twenty-four 
people  dining,  and  I  haven't  an  idea  in  my  head. 
I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to  send  for  Francois." 

"Is  Francois  the  man-cook  who  comes  down  to 
Thorpe?"  Letty  asked. 

Mrs.  Brown  nodded. 


148  THE  MISSIONER 

"The  chef  you  should  call  him/'  she  answered. 
"A  very  clever  man,  no  doubt,  in  his  way,  but 
takes  a  lot  of  keeping  in  order." 

"Do  you  have  to  look  after  all  the  servants?" 
Letty  asked.  "Doesn't  Miss  Thorpe-Hatton  ever 
order  anything?" 

Mrs.  Brown  looked  pityingly  at  her  guest. 

"My  dear  child,"  she  said,  "I  doubt  if  she  could 
tell  you  to  three  or  four  how  many  servants  there 
are  in  the  house,  and  as  to  ordering  anything,  I 
don't  suppose  such  a  thought's  ever  entered  into 
her  head.  Here's  James  coming.  Perhaps  it's  a 
message  for  you." 

A  footman  entered  and  greeted  Letty  kindly. 

"Good  morning,  young  lady!"  he  said.  "You 
are  to  go  into  the  morning-room  at  once." 

Letty  rose  with  alacrity. 

"Is  —  is  she  there?"  she  asked  nervously. 

"She  is,"  the  man  answered,  "and  if  I  were  you, 
miss,  I  wouldn't  do  much  more  than  just  answer  her 
questions  and  skedaddle.  I  haven't  had  any  con- 
versation with  her  myself,  but  mademoiselle  says 
she's  more  than  a  bit  off  it  this  morning.  Slept 
badly  or  something." 

"Don't  frighten  the  child,  James,"  Mrs.  Brown 
said  reprovingly.  "She's  not  likely  to  say  much  to 
you,  my  dear.  You  hurry  along,  and  come  back  and 
have  a  glass  of  wine  and  a  biscuit  before  you  go. 
Show  her  the  way,  James." 

"If  you  please,  miss,"  the  man  answered,  becom- 
ing once  more  an  automaton. 

Letty  was  ushered  into  a  small  room,  full,  it 
seemed  to  her  as  she  entered,  of  sunshine  and  flowers. 


LETTY'S  DILEMMA  149 

Wilhelmina,  in  a  plain  white-serge  gown,  with  a 
string  of  beads  around  her  neck  of  some  strange- 
coloured  shade  of  blue,  was  sitting  in  a  high-backed 
easy-chair.  A  small  wood  fire  was  burning  in  the 
grate,  filling  the  room  with  a  pleasant  aromatic 
odour,  and  the  window  leading  into  the  square 
was  thrown  wide  open. 

On  a  table  by  her  side  were  a  pile  of  letters,  an 
ivory  letter-opener,  several  newspapers,  and  a  silver 
box  of  cigarettes.  For  the  moment,  however,  none 
of  these  things  claimed  her  attention.  The  lady  of 
the  house  was  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  and  her 
eyes  were  half  closed.  If  she  had  not  been  sitting 
with  her  back  to  the  light,  Letty  might  have  noticed 
the  dark  rings  under  her  eyes.  It  was  true  that 
she  had  not  slept  well. 

Letty  advanced  doubtfully  into  the  room.  Wilhel- 
mina  turned  her  head. 

"Oh,  it  is  you,"  she  remarked.  "Come  up  to 
the  table  where  I  can  see  you." 

"Mrs.  Brown  told  me  that  you  wished  to  see  me 
before  I  went,"  the  girl  said  hesitatingly. 

Wilhelmina  was  silent  for  a  moment.  She  was 
looking  at  the  girl.  Yes!  she  wras  pretty  in  a  rustic, 
uncultured  way.  Her  figure  was  unformed,  her 
hands  and  feet  what  might  have  been  expected, 
and  it  was  obvious  that  she  lacked  taste.  Were 
men  really  attracted  by  this  sort  of  thing? 

"Yes!"  Wilhelmina  said,  "I  wish  to  speak  to 
you.  I  am  not  altogether  satisfied  about  last 
night. " 

Letty  said  nothing.  She  went  red  and  then  white. 
Wilhelmina's  examination  of  her  was  merciless. 


150  THE  MISSIONER 

"  I  wish  to  know,"  Wilhelmina  said,  "  who  your 
companion  was  —  with  whom  you  had  dinner  and 
supper.  I  look  upon  that  person  as  being  respon- 
sible for  your  lost  train." 

Letty  prayed  that  she  might  sink  into  the  ground. 
Her  worst  imaginings  had  not  been  so  bad  as  this. 
She  remained  silent,  tongue-tied. 

"Fm  waiting,"  Wilhelmina  said  mercilessly.  "I 
suppose  it  is  obvious  enough,  but  I  wish  to  hear 
from  your  own  lips." 

"I  —  he  —  I  don't  think  that  he  would  like  me 
to  tell  you,  ma'am,"  she  faltered. 

Wilhelmina  smiled  —  unpleasantly. 

"Probably  not,"  she  answered.  "That,  how- 
ever, is  beside  the  question.  I  wish  to  know." 

The  girl  was  desperate.  It  was  indeed  a  quan- 
dary with  her.  To  offend  the  mistress  of  Thorpe 
was  something  like  sacrilege,  but  she  knew  very 
well  what  Stephen  would  have  had  her  do. 

"If  you  please,  ma'am,"  she  said  at  last,  "I 
can't." 

Wilhelmina  said  nothing  for  a  moment,  only  her 
eyebrows  were  slowly  lifted. 

"If  you  do  not,"  she  said,  calmly,  "I  must  write 
to  your  mother  and  tell  her  what  I  think  of  your 
behaviour  last  night.  I  do  not  care  to  have  people 
near  me  who  are  disobedient,  or  —  foolish." 

The  girl  burst  into  tears.  Wilhelmina  watched 
her  with  cold  patience. 

"I  presume,"  she  said,  "that  it  was  Mr.  Macheson. 
You  do  not  need  to  mention  his  name.  You  need 
only  say  'Yes!'" 

The  girl  said  nothing. 


LETTY'S  DILEMMA  151 

"Mr.  Macheson  lodged  with  your  mother,  I  be- 
lieve?" Wilhelmina  continued. 

"Yes!"  the  girl  whispered. 

"And  you  waited  upon  him?" 

"Yes!" 

The  girl  lifted  her  head. 

"Mr.  Macheson  always  behaved  like  a  gentleman 
to  me,"  she  said. 

Wilhelmina  regarded  her  contemptuously. 

"Your  ideas  of  what  constitutes  gentlemanly 
behaviour  are  probably  primitive,"  she  said.  "I  do 
not  think  that  I  need  trouble  you  for  any  direct 
answer.  Still,  it  would  be  better  for  you  to  give 
it." 

The  girl  was  again  silent.  There  was  a  knock 
at  the  door.  The  footman  ushered  in  Stephen 
Kurd. 

He  entered  confident  and  smiling.  He  was  wear- 
ing a  new  grey  tweed  suit,  and  he  was  pleased  with 
himself  and  the  summons  which  had  brought  him 
to  London.  But  the  sight  of  the  girl  took  his 
breath  away.  She,  too,  was  utterly  taken  by  sur- 
prise, and  forgot  herself. 

"Stephen!"  she  exclaimed,  taking  a  quick  step 
towards  him. 

"You!     You    here!"    he    answered. 

It  was  quite  enough!  But  what  puzzled  Letty 
was  that  Wilhelmina  did  not  seem  in  the  least 
angry.  There  was  a  strange  look  on  her  face  as 
she  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  Something  had 
sprung  into  her  eyes  which  seemed  to  transform  her. 
Her  voice,  too,  had  lost  all  its  hardness. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Hurd?"  she  said.     "I  hope 


152  THE  MISSIONER 

you  have  come  to  explain  how  you  dared  let  this 
child  lose  her  train  last  night." 

"I  — really  I  —  it  was  quite  a  mistake,"  he  fal- 
tered, darting  an  angry  glance  at  Letty. 

"You  had  supper  with  her,"  Wilhelmina  said, 
"and  you  knew  what  time  the  train  went." 

"She  met  some  other  friends,"  Stephen  answered. 
"She  left  me." 

Wilhelmina  smiled.  She  had  found  out  all  that 
she  wanted  to  know. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I  won't  inquire  too  closely  into 
it  this  time,  only  I  hope  that  nothing  of  the  sort 
will  occur  again.  You  had  better  have  lunch  with 
Mrs.  Brown  in  the  housekeeper's  room,  Letty,  and 
I'll  send  you  over  to  St.  Pancras  for  the  four  o'clock 
train.  I'll  give  you  a  letter  to  your  mother  this 
time,  but  mind,  no  more  foolishness  of  this  sort." 

The  girl  tried  to  stammer  out  her  thanks,  but  she 
was  almost  incoherent.  Wilhelmina  dismissed  her 
with  a  smile.  Her  manner  was  distinctly  colder 
when  she  turned  to  Kurd. 

"Mr.  Hurd,"  she  said,  "I  hope  you  will  understand 
me  when  I  say  that  I  do  not  care  to  have  my  agent, 
or  any  one  connected  with  the  estate,  play  the  Don 
Juan  amongst  my  tenants'  daughters." 

He  flushed  up  to  the  eyes. 

"It  was  idiotic  of  me,"  he  admitted  frankly.  "I 
simply  meant  to  give  the  child  a  good  time." 

"She  is  quite  pretty  in  her  way,"  Wilhelmina 
said,  "and  her  parents,  I  believe,  are  most  respect- 
able people.  You  were  perhaps  thinking  of  settling 
down?" 

He  looked  at  her  in  amazement. 


LETTY'S  DILEMMA  153 

"What,  with  Letty  Foulton!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Why  not?"  she  asked. 

He  drew  a  breath  through  his  teeth.  He  could 
scarcely  trust  himself  to  speak  for  anger. 

"You  —  are  not  serious?"  he  permitted  himself 
to  ask. 

"Why  not?"  she  demanded. 

Kurd  struggled  to  express  himself  with  dignity. 

"I  should  not  consider  such  a  marriage  a  suitable 
one,  even  if  I  were  thinking  of  marrying  at  all/' 
he  said. 

She  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"No?  Well,  I  suppose  you  know  best/'  she  said 
carelessly.  "Is  there  anything  fresh  down  at 
Thorpe?" 

She  was  angry  about  that  fool  of  a  girl,  he  told 
himself.  A  good  sign.  But  what  an  actress!  His 
conceit  barely  kept  him  up. 

"There  really  isn't  anything  I  couldn't  arrange 
with  Mr.  Fields,"  he  admitted.  "I  thought,  per- 
haps, as  I  was  up,  you  might  have  some  special 
instructions.  That  is  why  I  sent  to  ask  if  you  would 
see  me." 

He  looked  at  her  almost  eagerly.  After  all,  she 
was  the  same  woman  who  had  been  kind  to  him  at 
Thorpe?  And  yet,  was  she?  A  sudden  thought 
startled  him.  She  was  changed.  Had  she  guessed 
that  he  knew  her  secret? 

"No!"  she  said  deliberately.  "I  do  not  think 
that  there  is  anything.  If  you  could  find  out  Mr. 
Macheson's  address  I  should  be  much  obliged." 

Hurd  was  puzzled.  This  was  the  second  time. 
What  could  she  have  to  say  to  Macheson? 


154  THE  MISSIONER 

"He  was  here  last  night,  but  I  forgot  to  ask  him," 
she  continued  equably. 

"Macheson,  here!"  he  exclaimed. 

"It  was  he  who  brought  the  girl,  Letty,"  she 
said. 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"He's  a  queer  lot,"  he  said.  "Came  to  Thorpe, 
of  all  places,  as  a  sort  of  missioner,  and  he  was 
about  town  last  night  most  immaculately  got  up; 
nothing  of  the  parson  about  him,  I  can  assure  you." 

"No!"  she  answered  quietly.  "Well,  if  you  can 
discover  his  address,  remember  I  should  be  glad  to 
hear  it." 

He  took  up  his  hat  reluctantly.  He  had  hoped  at 
least  that  he  might  have  been  asked  to  luncheon. 
It  was  obvious,  however,  that  he  was  expected  to 
depart,  and  he  did  so.  On  the  whole,  although  he 
had  escaped  from  an  exceedingly  awkward  situa- 
tion, he  could  scarcely  consider  his  visit  a  success. 
On  his  way  out  he  passed  Deyes,  stepping  out  of  a 
cab  piled  up  with  luggage.  He  nodded  to  Hurd  in 
a  friendly  manner. 

"Miss  Thorpe-Hatton  in?"  he  asked. 

"Just  left  her,"   Hurd  answered. 

Deyes  passed  on,  and  was  received  by  the  butler 
as  a  favoured  guest.  He  was  shown  at  once  into 
the  morning-room. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A  REPORT  FROM  PARIS 

the  first  time  in  my  life,"  Deyes  declared, 
accepting  the  cigarette  and  the  easy-chair, 
"I  have  appreciated  Paris.  I  have  gone  there  as  a 
tourist.  I  have  drunk  strange  drinks  at  the  Cafe  de 
la  Paix.  I  have  sat  upon  the  boulevards  and  ogled 
the  obvious  lady." 

"And  my  little  guide?"  she  asked. 

"Has  disappeared!"  he  answered. 

"Since  when?" 

"A  month  ago!  It  is  reported  that  he  came  to 
England." 

Wilhelmina  sat  still  for  several  moments.  To 
a  casual  observer  she  might  have  seemed  unmoved. 
Deyes,  however,  was  watching  her  closely,  and  he 
understood. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said,  "to  have  so  little  to  tell 
you.  But  that  is  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  it. 
The  man  had  gone  away." 

"That  is  precisely  what  I  desired  to  ascertain," 
she  said.  "It  seemed  to  me  possible  that  the  man 
had  come  to  England.  I  wished  to  know  for  certain 
whether  it  was  true  or  not." 

"I  think,"  Deyes  said,  withdrawing  his  cigarette 
and  looking  at  it  thoughtfully,  "that  it  is  true." 


156  THE  MISSIONER 

"You  have  any  further  reason  for  thinking  so," 
she  asked,  "beyond  your  casual  inquiries?" 

"Well,  yes!"  he  admitted.  "I  went  a  little 
farther  than  those  casual  inquiries.  It  seemed  such 
a  meagre  report  to  bring  you." 

"Goon!" 

"The  ordinary  person,"  he  continued  smoothly, 
"would  never  believe  the  extreme  difficulty  with 
which  one  collects  any  particulars  as  to  the  home  life 
of  a  guide.  More  than  once  I  felt  inclined  to  give 
up  the  task  in  despair.  It  seemed  to  me  that  a  guide 
could  have  no  home,  that  he  must  sleep  in  odd 
moments  on  a  bench  at  the  Hotel  de  Luxe.  I  tried 
to  fancy  a  guide  in  the  bosom  of  his  family,  carving 
a  Sunday  joint,  and  surrounded  by  Mrs.  Guide  and 
the  little  Guides.  I  couldn't  do  it.  It  seemed  to 
me  somehow  grotesque.  Just  as  I  was  giving  it  up 
in  despair,  the  commissionaire  at  a  night  cafe  in 
Montmartre  told  me  exactly  what  I  wanted  to 
know.  He  showed  me  the  house  where  Johnny,  as 
they  called  him,  had  a  room." 

"You  went  there?"  she  asked. 

"I  did,"  he  answered. 

"It  was  locked  up?" 

"On  the"  contrary,"  he  declared,  "Mrs.  or  Miss 
Guide  was  at  home,  and  very  pleased  to  see  me." 

"There  was  a  woman  there?" 

"Assuredly.  Whether  she  is  there  now  or  not  I 
cannot  say,  for  it  is  three  days  ago,  and  to  me  she 
seemed  nearer  than  that  to  death!" 

"And  about  this  woman!  What  was  she  like? 
Was  she  his  wife  or  his  daughter?" 

"He   called   her   his   daughter.     I   am   not   sure 


A  REPORT  FROM  PARIS  157 

about  the  relationship.     She  had  been  good-looking, 
I  should  say,  but  she  was  very  ill." 

"  What  did  she  tell  you — about  the  man  Johnson?" 

"That  he  had  gone  to  England  to  try  to  get 
some  money.  They  were  almost  destitute !  He  was 
a  good  guide,  she  said,  but  people  came  so  often  to 
Paris,  and  they  liked  some  one  fresh.  Then  she 
coughed  —  how  she  coughed!" 

"  Did  she  tell  you  to  what  part  of  England  the  man 
Johnson  had  gone?" 

"I  asked  her,  but  she  was  not  sure.  I  do  not 
believe  that  she  knew.  She  said  that  there  was 
some  one  in  England  wrho  was  very  rich,  and  from 
whom  he  hoped  to  be  able  to  get  money." 

"Anything  else?" 

"No!  I  spoke  of  myself  as  an  old  client  of 
Johnny's,  and  I  left  money.  Afterwards,  at  the 
cafe  where  I  lunched,  I  found  a  commissionaire 
who  told  me  more  about  our  friend." 

"  Ah !     What  was  the  name  of  the  cafe?  " 

"The  Cafe  de  Paris!" 

She  took  up  a  screen  and  held  it  before  her  face. 
There  seemed  to  be  little  need  of  it,  however,  for  her 
cheeks  were  as  pale  as  the  white  roses  by  her  side. 

"This  man  Johnny,  as  they  call  him,"  Deyes 
continued,  "seems  to  have  had  his  ups  and  downs. 
One  big  stroke  of  luck  he  had,  however,  which  seems 
to  have  kept  him  going  for  several  years.  The 
commissionaire  was  able  to  tell  me  something  about 
it.  Shall  I  go  on?"  he  asked,  dropping  his  voice  a 
little. 

"I  should  like  to  know  what  the  commissionaire- 
told  you,"  she  answered. 


158  THE  MISSIONER 

"Somehow  or  other  this  fellow,  Johnny  or  John- 
son as  some  of  them  called  him,  was  recommended  to 
a  young  lady,  a  very  young  lady,  who  was  in  Paris 
with  an  invalid  chaperon." 

"Stop!"  she  cried. 

He  looked  at  her  fixedly. 

"  You  were  that  young  lady,"  he  said  softly.  "  Of 
course,  I  know  that!" 

"I  was,"  she  admitted.  "Don't  speak  to  me  for 
a  few  moments.  It  was  years  ago  —  but  - 

She  bent  the  screen  which  she  held  in  her  hand 
until  the  handle  snapped. 

"You  seem,"  she  said,  "to  have  rather  exceeded 
your  instructions.  I  simply  wanted  to  know  whether 
the  man  was  in  Paris  or  not." 

He  bowed. 

"The  man  is  in  England,"  he  said.  "Don't  you 
think  it  might  be  helpful  if  you  gave  me  more  of 
your  confidence,  and  told  me  why  you  wanted  to 
hear  about  him?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  would  sooner  tell  you  than  any  one,  Gilbert," 
she  said,  "but  I  do  not  want  to  talk  about  it." 

"It  must  be  as  you  will,  of  course,"  he  answered, 
"but  I  hope  you  will  always  remember  that  you 
could  do  me  no  greater  kindness  —  at  any  time  — 
than  to  make  use  of  my  services.  I  do  not  know 
everything  of  what  happened  in  Paris — about  that 
time.  I  do  not  wish  to  know.  I  am  content  to 
serve  you  —  blindly." 

"I  will  not  forget  that"  she  said  softly.  "If 
ever  the  necessity  comes  I  will  remind  you.  There! 
Let  that  be  the  end  of  it." 


A  REPORT  FROM  PARIS  159 

She  changed  the  subject,  giving  him  to  under- 
stand that  she  did  not  wish  to  discuss  it  further. 

"You  are  for  Marienbad,  as  usual?"  she  asked. 

"Next  week,"  he  answered.  "One  goes  from 
habit,  I  suppose.  No  waters  upon  the  earth  or 
under  it  will  ever  cure  me!" 

"Liver?"  she  asked. 

"Heart!"  he  declared. 

"You  shouldn't  smoke  so  many  cigarettes." 

"Harmless,"  he  assured  her.     "I  don't  inhale." 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "that  I  shall  come  over  next 
month." 

"Do!"  he  begged.  "I'll  answer  for  the  bridge. 
May  I  come  and  lunch  to-morrow?" 

She  turned  to  a  red  morocco  book  by  her  side. 

"A  bishop  and  Lady  Sarah,"  she  said.  "Several 
more  parsons,  and  I  think  the  duchess." 

"I'll  face  'em,"  he  declared. 

"I  think  I  shall  send  for  Peggy,"  Wilhelmina 
said.  "She  is  always  so  sweet  to  the  Church." 

Deyes  grinned. 

"I  shall  go  round  and  look  her  up,"  he  declared. 
"Perhaps  she'll  come  and  have  lunch  with  me  some- 
where." 

She  held  out  her  hand. 

"You're  a  good  sort  to  have  gone  over  for  me," 
she  said.  "The  things  you  tumbled  up  against 
you'd  better  forget." 

"Until  you  remind  me  of  them,"  he  said.  "Very 
well,  I'll  do  that.  Sorry  I  didn't  run  Johnny  to 
earth." 

He  went  off,  and  Wilhelmina  after  a  few  minutes 
went  to  her  desk  and  wrote  a  letter  to  Stephen  Hurd. 


160  THE  MISSIONER 

"As  usual,"  she  wrote,  "when  you  were  here 
this  morning  I  forgot  to  mention  several  matters 
upon  which  I  meant  to  speak  to  you.  The  first  is 
with  regard  to  the  man  whose  brutal  assault  upon 
your  father  caused  his  death.  I  understand  that 
the  police  have  never  traced  him,  have  never  even 
found  the  slightest  clue  to  his  whereabouts.  The 
more  I  think  of  this,  the  more  strange  it  seems  to 
me,  and  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  he  never, 
after  all,  escaped  from  the  wood  in  which  he  first 
took  shelter.  I  know  that  the  slate  quarry  was 
dragged  at  the  time,  but  I  have  been  told  that  this 
was  hastily  done,  and  that  there  are  several  very 
deep  holes  into  which  the  man's  body  may  have 
drifted.  I  wish  you,  therefore,  to  send  over  to 
Nottingham  to  get  some  experienced  men  to  bring 
back  the  drags  and  make  an  exhaustive  search. 
Please  have  this  done  without  delay. 

"Further,  I  wish  to  communicate  with  the  young 
man  Macheson,  who  was  in  Thorpe  at  the  time. 
They  may  know  his  address  at  the  post-office,  but 
if  you  are  unable  to  procure  it  in  any  other  way, 
you  must  advertise  in  your  own  name.  Please 
carry  out  my  instructions  in  these  two  matters 
immediately." 

Wilhelmina  laid  down  her  pen  and  looked  thought- 
fully through  the  window  into  the  square.  A  police- 
man was  coming  slowly  along  the  pavement.  She 
watched  him  approach  and  pass  the  house,  his  eyes 
still  fixed  in  front  of  him,  his  whole  appearance 
stolid  and  matter-of-fact  to  the  last  degree.  She 
watched  him  disappear  with  fascinated  eyes.  After 
all,  he  represented  great  things;  behind  him  was 


A  REPORT  FROM  PARIS  161 

a  whole  national  code;  the  machinery  of  which  he 
was  so  small  a  part  drove  the  wheels  of  life  or  death. 
She  turned  away  from  the  window  with  a  shrug 
of  the  shoulders.  Humming  a  tune,  she  threw  her- 
self back  in  her  chair,  and  began  the  leisurely  perusal 
of  her  letters. 


CHAPTER  XX 

LIKE  A  TRAPPED  ANIMAL 

"JV/fACHESON  in  those  days  felt  himself  rapidly 
•L*A  growing  older.  An  immeasurable  gap 
seemed  to  lie  between  him  and  the  eager  young 
apostle  who  had  plunged  so  light-heartedly  into  the 
stress  of  life.  All  that  wonderful  enthusiasm,  that 
undaunted  courage  with  which  he  had  faced  coldness 
and  ridicule  in  the  earlier  days  of  his  self-chosen 
vocation  seemed  to  have  left  him.  Some  way, 
somehow,  he  seemed  to  have  suffered  shipwreck! 
There  was  poison  in  his  system!  Fight  against  it 
as  he  might  —  and  he  did  fight  —  there  were 
moments  when  memory  turned  the  life  which  he  had 
taken  up  so  solemnly  into  the  maddest,  most  fantastic 
fairy  story.  At  such  times  his  blood  ran  riot,  the 
sweetness  of  a  strange,  unknown  world  seemed  to  be 
calling  to  him  across  the  forbidden  borders.  In- 
action wearied  him  horribly  —  and,  after  all,  it  was 
inaction  which  Holderness  had  recommended  as  the 
best  means  of  re-establishing  himself  in  a  saner  and 
more  normal  attitude  towards  life! 

"Look  round  a  bit,  old  chap,"  he  advised,  "and 
think.  Don't  do  anything  in  a  hurry.  You're 
young,  shockingly  young  for  any  effective  work. 
You  can't  teach  before  you  understand.  Life 


163 

isn't  such  a  sink  of  iniquity  as  you  young  prigs  at 
Oxford  professed  to  find  it.  See  the  best  of  it  and 
the  worst.  You'll  be  able  to  put  your  ringer  on 
the  weak  spots  quick  enough." 

But  the  process  of  looking  around  wearied  Mache- 
son  excessively  —  or  was  it  something  else  which 
had  crept  into  his  blood  to  his  immense  unsettle- 
ment?  There  were  several  philanthropic  schemes 
started  by  himself  and  his  college  friends  in  full 
swing  now,  in  or  about  London.  To  each  of  them 
he  paid  some  attention,  studying  its  workings, 
listening  to  the  enthusiastic  outpourings  of  his 
quondam  friends  and  doing  his  best  to  catch  at 
least  some  spark  of  their  interest.  But  it  was  all 
very  unsatisfactory.  Deep  down  in  his  heart  he 
felt  the  insistent  craving  for  some  fiercer  excitement, 
some  mode  of  life  which  should  make  larger  and 
deeper  demands  upon  his  emotional  temperament. 
A  heroic  war  would  have  appealed  to  him  instantly  — 
for  that,  he  realized  with  a  sigh,  he  was  born  many 
centuries  too  late.  For  weeks  he  wandered  about 
London  in  a  highly  unsatisfied  condition.  Then 
one  afternoon,  in  the  waning  of  a  misty  October 
day,  he  came  face  to  face  with  Wilhelmina  in  Bond 
Street. 

She  was  stepping  into  her  motor  brougham  when 
she  saw  him.  He  had  no  opportunity  for  escape, 
even  if  he  had  desired  it.  Her  tired  lips  were 
suddenly  curved  into  a  most  bewildering  smile. 
She  withdrew  her  hand  from  her  muff  and  offered 
it  to  him  —  for  the  first  time. 

"So  you  are  still  in  London,  Mr.  Macheson,"  she 
said.  "I  am  very  glad  to  see  you." 


164  THE  MISSIONER 

The  words  were  unlike  her,  the  tone  was  such  as 
he  had  never  heard  her  use.  Do  what  he  could,  he 
could  not  help  the  answering  light  which  sprang 
into  his  own  eyes. 

"I  am  still  in  London,"  he  said.  "I  thought  you 
were  to  go  to  Marienbad?" 

"I  left  it  until  it  was  too  late,"  she  answered. 
"Walk  a  little  way  with  me,"  she  added  abruptly. 
"I  should  like  to  talk  to  you." 

"If  I  may,"  he  answered  simply. 

She  dismissed  the  brougham,  and  they  moved  on. 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  began,  "that  I  was  rude  to 
you  when  you  brought  that  girl  to  me.  You  did 
exactly  what  was  nice  and  kind,  and  I  was  hateful. 
Please  forgive  me." 

"Of  course,"  he  answered  simply.  "I  felt  sure 
that  when  you  thought  it  over  you  would  under- 
stand." 

"  You  are  not  going  back  —  to  Thorpe? "  she  asked. 

"Not  at  present,  at  any  rate,"  he  answered. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  faint  smile. 

"You  can  have  the  barn,"  she  said. 

His  eyes  answered  her  smile,  but  his  tone  was 
grave. 

"I  have  given  that  up  —  for  a  little  time,  at  any 
rate,"  he  said.  "I  mean  that  particular  sort  of 
work." 

"My  villagers  must  content  themselves  with  Mr. 
Vardon,  then,"  she  remarked. 

He  nodded. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said,  "ours  was  a  mistaken  enter- 
prise. I  am  not  sure.  But  at  any  rate,  so  far  as 


LIKE  A  TRAPPED  ANIMAL  165 

Thorpe  is  concerned,  I  have  abandoned  it  for  the 
present." 

She  was  walking  close  to  his  side,  so  close  that 
the  hand  which  raised  her  skirt  as  they  crossed 
the  street  touched  his,  and  her  soft  breath  as  she 
leaned  over  and  spoke  fell  upon  his  cheek. 

"Why?" 

He  felt  the  insidious  meaning  of  her  whispered 
monosyllable,  he  felt  her  eyes  striving  to  make  him 
look  at  her.  His  cheeks  were  flushed,  but  he  looked 
steadily  ahead. 

"There  were  several  reasons,"  he  said. 

"Do  tell  me,"  she  begged;  "I  am  curious." 

"For  one,"  he  said  steadily,  "I  did  an  unjust 
thing  at  Thorpe.  I  sheltered  a  criminal  and  helped 
him  to  escape." 

"So  it  was  you  who  did  that,"  she  remarked. 
"You  mean,  of  course,  the  man  who  killed  Mr. 
Kurd?" 

"Yes!"  he  answered.  "I  showed  him  where 
to  hide.  He  either  got  clean  away,  or  he  is  lying  at 
the  bottom  of  the  slate  quarry.  In  either  case,  I  am 
responsible  for  him.1' 

"Well,"  she  said,  "he  is  not  at  the  bottom  of  the 
slate  quarry.  I  can  at  least  assure  you  of  that.  I 
have  had  the  place  dragged,  and  every  foot  of  it 
gone  over  by  experienced  men  from  Notting- 
ham." 

"Really,"  he  said,  surprised.  "Well,  I  am 
glad  of  it." 

She  sighed. 

"I  want  you,  if  you  can,"  she  said,  "to  describe 
the  man  to  me.  It  is  not  altogether  curiosity.  I 


166  THE  MISSIONER 

have  a  reason  for  wishing  to  know  what  he  was 
like." 

"He  was  in  such  a  state  of  panic,"  Macheson  said 
doubtfully,  "that  I  am  afraid  I  have  only  an  im- 
perfect impression  of  him.  He  was  not  very  tall, 
he  had  a  round  face,  cheeks  that  were  generally,  I 
should  think,  rather  high-coloured,  brown  eyes  and 
dark  hair,  almost  black.  He  wore  a  thick  gold  ring 
on  the  finger  of  one  hand,  and  although  he  spoke 
good  English,  I  got  the  idea  somehow  that  he  was 
either  a  foreigner  or  had  lived  abroad.  He  was  in 
a  terrible  state  of  fear,  and  from  what  I  could 
gather,  I  should  say  that  he  struck  old  Mr.  Hurd  in 
a  scuffle,  and  not  with  any  deliberate  intention 
of  hurting  him." 

She  nodded. 

"I  have  heard  all  that  I  want  to,"  she  declared. 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  several  minutes. 
Then  she  turned  to  him  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

"The  subject,"  she  declared,  "is  dismissed.  I  did 
not  ask  you  to  walk  with  me  to  discuss  such  un- 
pleasant things.  T  should  like  to  know  about 
yourself." 

He  sighed. 

"About  myself,"  he  answered,  "there  is  nothing 
to  tell.  There  isn't  in  the  whole  of  London  a  more 
unsatisfactory  person." 

She  laughed  softly. 

"Such  delightful  humility,"  she  murmured,  "es- 
pecially amongst  the  young,  is  too  touching.  Never- 
theless, go  on.  It  amuses  me  to  hear." 

The  note  of  imperiousness  in  her  tone  was  pleas- 
antly reminiscent.  It  was  the  first  reminder  he 
had  received  of  the  great  lady  of  Thorpe. 


LIKE  A  TRAPPED  ANIMAL  167 

"Well,"  he  said,  "what  do  you  want  to  know?" 

"Everything,"  she  answered.  "I  am  possessed 
by  a  most  unholy  curiosity.  Your  relatives  for  in- 
stance, and  where  you  were  born." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  have  no  relatives,"  he  answered.  "I  was  born 
in  Australia.  I  am  an  orphan,  twenty-eight  years 
old,  and  feel  forty-eight,  no  profession,  no  settled 
purpose  in  life.  I  am  Japhet  in  search  of  a  career." 

She  glanced  at  his  shabby  clothes.  He  had  been 
to  a  mission-house  in  the  East  End. 

"You  are  poor?"  she  asked  softly. 

"I  have  enough,  more  than  enough,"  he  answered, 
"to  live  on." 

Her  eyes  lingered  upon  his  clothes,  but  he  offered 
no  explanation.  Enough  to  live  on,  she  reflected, 
might  mean  anything! 

"You  say  that  you  have  no  profession,"  she 
remarked.  "I  suppose  you  would  call  it  a  vocation. 
But  why  did  you  want  to  come  and  preach  to  my 
villagers  at  Thorpe?  Why  didn't  you  go  into  the 
Church  if  you  cared  for  that  sort  of  thing?" 

"There  was  a  certain  amount  of  dogma  in  the 
way,"  he  answered.  "I  should  make  but  a  poor 
Churchman.  They  would  probably  call  me  a  free- 
thinker. Besides,  I  wanted  my  independence." 

She  nodded. 

"  I  am  beginning  to  understand  a  little  better," 
she  said.  "  Now  you  must  tell  me  this.  Why  did 
you  entertain  the  idea  of  mission  work  in  a  place 
like  Thorpe,  when  the  whole  of  that  awful  East  End 
was  there  waiting  for  you?  " 

"  All  the  world  of  reformers,"  he  answered,  "rushes 


168  THE  MISSIONER 

to  the  East  End.  We  fancied  there  was  as  im- 
portant work  to  be  done  in  less  obvious  places." 

"And  you  started  your  work,"  she  asked,  "di- 
rectly you  left  college?" 

"Before,  I  think,"  he  answered.  "You  see,  I 
wasn't  alone.  There  were  several  of  us  who  felt 
the  same  way  —  Holderness,  for  instance,  the  man 
who  came  to  your  house  with  me  the  other  night. 
He  works  altogether  upon  the  political  side.  He's 
a  Socialist  —  of  a  sort.  Two  of  the  others  went  into 
the  Church,  one  became  a  medical  missionary.  I 
joined  in  with  a  few  who  thought  that  we  might 
do  more  effective  work  without  tying  ourselves 
down  to  anything,  or  subscribing  to  any  religious 
denomination." 

She  looked  at  him  curiously.  He  was  tall, 
broad-shouldered  and  muscular.  He  wore  even  his 
shabby  clothes  with  an  air  of  distinction. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said  calmly,  "that  I  must 
belong  to  a  very  different  world.  But  what  I  cannot 
understand  is  why  you  should  choose  a  career  which 
you  intend  to  pursue  apparently  for  the  benefit 
of  other  people.  All  the  young  men  whom  I  have 
known  who  have  taken  life  seriously  enough  to 
embrace  a  career  at  all,  have  at  least  studied  their 
individual  tastes." 

"Well,"  he  answered,  smiling,  "it  isn't  that  I 
fancy  myself  any  better  than  my  fellows.  I  was 
at  Magdalen,  you  know,  under  Heysey.  I  think 
that  it  was  his  influence  which  shaped  our  ideas." 

"Yes!  I  have  heard  of  him,"  she  said  thought- 
fully. "He  was  a  good  man.  At  least  every  one 
says  so.  I'm  afraid  I  don't  know  much  about  good 


LIKE  A  TRAPPED  ANIMAL  169 

men  myself.  Most  of  those  whom  I  have  met  have 
been  the  other  sort." 

The  faint  bitterness  of  her  tone  troubled  him. 
There  was  deliberation,  too,  in  her  words.  In- 
stinctively he  knew  that  this  was  no  idle  speech. 

"You  have  asked  me,"  he  reminded  her,  "a,  good 
many  questions.  I  wonder  if  I  might  be  permitted 
to  ask  you  one?" 

"Why  not?  I  can  reserve  the  privilege  of  not 
answering  it,"  she  remarked. 

"People  call  you  a  fortunate  woman,"  he  said. 
"You  are  very  rich,  you  have  a  splendid  home,  the 
choice  of  your  own  friends,  a  certain  reputation  — 
forgive  me  if  I  quote  from  a  society  paper  —  as  a 
brilliant  and  popular  woman  of  the  world.  Yours 
is  rather  a  unique  position,  isn't  it?  I  wonder," 
he  added,  "whether  you  are  satisfied  with  what  you 
get  out  of  life!" 

"I  get  all  that  there  is  to  be  got,"  she  answered, 
a  slight  hardness  creeping  into  her  tone.  "It 
mayn't  be  much,  but  it  amuses  me  —  sometimes." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"There  is  more  to  be  got  out  of  life,"  he  said, 
"than  a  little  amusement." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"How  about  yourself?  You  haven't  exactly  the 
appearance  of  a  perfectly  contented  being." 

"I'm  hideously  dissatisfied,"  he  admitted 
promptly.  "Something  seems  to  have  gone  wrong 
with  me  —  I  seem  to  have  become  a  looker-on  at  life. 
I  want  to  take  a  hand,  and  I  can't.  There  doesn't 
seem  to  be  any  place  for  me.  Of  course,  it's  only 
a  phase,"  he  continued.  "I  shall  settle  down  into 


170  THE  MISSIONER 

something  presently.     But  it's  rather  beastly  while 
it  lasts." 

She  looked  at  him,  her  eyes  soft  with  laughter. 
Somehow  his  confession  seemed  to  have  delighted 
her. 

"I'm  glad  you  are  human  enough  to  have  phases," 
she  declared.  "I  was  beginning  to  be  afraid 
that  you  might  turn  out  to  be  just  an  ordinary 
superior  person.  Perhaps  you  are  also  human 
enough  to  drink  tea  and  eat  muffins.  Try,  won't 
you?" 

They  were  in  front  of  her  door,  which  flew  im- 
mediately open.  She  either  took  his  consent  for 
granted,  or  chose  not  to  risk  his  refusal,  for  she 
went  on  ahead,  and  his  faint  protests  were  un- 
heard. His  hat  and  stick  passed  into  the  care 
of  an  elderly  person  in  plain  black  clothes;  with 
scarcely  an  effort  at  resistance,  he  found  himself 
following  her  down  the  hall.  She  stopped  before 
a  small  wrought-iron  gate,  which  a  footman  at  once 
threw  open. 

"It  makes  one  feel  as  though  one  were  in  a  hotel, 
doesn't  it?"  she  remarked,  "but  I  hate  stairs. 
Besides,  I  am  going  to  take  you  a  long,  long  way 
up.  ...  I  am  not  at  home  this  afternoon,  Groves." 

"Very  good,  madam,"  the  man  answered. 

They  stepped  out  into  a  smaller  hall.  A  dark- 
featured  young  woman  came  hurrying  forward  to 
meet  them. 

"I  shall  not  need  you,  Annette,"  Wilhelmina 
said.  "Go  down  and  see  that  they  send  up  tea  for 
two,  and  telephone  to  Lady  Margaret — say  I'm 
sorry  that  I  cannot  call  for  her  this  afternoon." 


LIKE  A  TRAPPED  ANIMAL  171 

"  Parf aitement,  madame,"  the  girl  murmured, 
and  hurried  away.  Wilhelmina  opened  the  door 
of  a  sitting-room  —  the  most  wonderful  apartment 
Macheson  had  ever  seen.  A  sudden  nervousness 
seized  him.  He  felt  his  knees  shaking,  his  heart- 
began  to  thump,  his  brain  to  swim.  All  at  once  he 
realized  where  he  was!  It  was  not  the  lady  of 
Thorpe,  this!  It  was  the  woman  who  had  come  to 
him  with  the  storm,  the  woman  who  had  set  burn- 
ing the  flame  which  had  driven  him  into  a  new 
world.  He  looked  around  half  wildly!  He  felt 
suddenly  like  a  trapped  animal.  It  was  no  place 
for  him,  this  bower  of  roses  and  cushions,  and 
all  the  voluptuous  appurtenances  of  a  chamber 
subtly  and  irresistibly  feminine!  He  was  bereft 
of  words,  awkward,  embarrassed.  He  longed  pas- 
sionately to  escape. 

Wilhelmina  closed  the  door  and  raised  her  veil. 
She  laid  her  two  hands  upon  his  shoulders,  and 
looked  up  at  him  with  a  faint  but  very  tender 
smile.  Her  forehead  was  slightly  wrinkled,  her 
fingers  seemed  to  cling  to  him,  so  that  her  very 
touch  was  like  a  caress!  His  heart  began  to  beat 
madly.  The  perfume  of  her  clothes,  her  hair,  the 
violets  at  her  bosom,  were  like  a  new  and  delicious 
form  of  intoxication.  The  touch  of  her  fingers 
became  more  insistent.  She  was  drawing  his  face 
down  to  hers. 

"I  wonder,"  she  murmured,  "whether  you  re- 
member!" 


BOOK  II 
CHAPTER  I 

RATHER  A  GHASTLY  PART 

Tl/TADEMOISELLE  ROSINE  raised  her  glass. 
*•**•  Her  big  black  eyes  flashed  unutterable 
things  across  the  pink  roses. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "that  we  drink  the  good 
health  of  our  host,  Meester  Macheson,  Meester 
Victor,  is  it  not?" 

"Bravo!"  declared  a  pallid-looking  youth,  her 
neighbour  at  the  round  supper  table.  "By  Jove,  if 
we  were  at  the  Cote  d'Or  instead  of  the  Warwick, 
we'd  give  him  musical  honours." 

"I  drink,"  Macheson  declared,  "to  all  of  us  who 
know  how  to  live!  Jules,  another  magnum,  and 
look  sharp." 

"Certainly,  sir,"  the  man  answered. 

There  flashed  a  quick  look  of  intelligence  between 
the  waiter  and  a  maitre  d'hotel  who  was  lingering 
near.  The  latter  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then 
nodded.  It  was  a  noisy  party  and  none  too  repu- 
table, but  a  magnum  of  champagne  was  an  order. 
They  were  likely  to  make  more  noise  still  if  they 
didn't  get  it.  So  the  wine  was  brought,  and  more 
toasts  were  drunk.  Mademoiselle  Rosine's  eyes 


RATHER  A  GHASTLY  PART  173 

flashed  softer  things  than  ever  across  the  table,  but 
she  had  the  disadvantage  of  distance.  Ella  Mer- 
riam,  the  latest  American  importation,  held  the  place 
of  honour  next  Macheson,  and  she  was  now  en- 
deavouring to  possess  herself  of  his  hand  under 
the  table. 

"I  say,  Macheson,  how  is  it  none  of  us  ever  ran 
up  against  you  before?"  young  Davenant  demanded, 
leaning  back  in  his  chair.  "Never  set  eyes  on  you 
myself,  from  the  day  you  left  Magdalen  till  I  ran 
up  against  you  at  the  Alhambra  the  other  evening. 
Awfully  studious  chap  Macheson  was  at  college," 
he  added  to  the  American  girl.  "Thought  us  chaps 
no  end  of  rotters  because  we  used  to  go  the  pace  a 
bit.  That's  so,  isn't  it,  Macheson?" 

Macheson  nodded. 

"It  is  only  the  young  who  are  really  wise,"  he 
declared  coolly.  "As  we  grow  older  we  make  fools 
of  ourselves  inevitably,  either  fools  or  beasts,  ac- 
cording to  our  proclivities.  Then  we  begin  to  enjoy 
ourselves." 

The  girl  by  his  side  laughed. 

"I  guess  you  don't  mean  that,"  she  said.  "It 
sounds  smart,  but  it's  real  horrid.  How  old  are 
you,  Mr.  Macheson?" 

"Older  than  I  look  and  younger  than  I  feel,"  he 
answered,  gazing  into  his  empty  glass. 

"  Have  you  found  what  you  call  your  proclivities?  " 
she  asked. 

"I  am  searching  for  them,"  Macheson  answered. 
"The  trouble  is  one  doesn't  know  whether  to  dig 
or  to  climb." 

"Why  should  one  search  at  all?"  the  other  man 


174  THE  MISSIONER 

asked,  drawing  out  a  gold  cigarette  case  from  his 
trousers  pocket,  and  carefully  selecting  a  cigarette. 
"Life  comes  easiest  to  those  who  go  blindfold.  I've 
got  a  brother,  private  secretary  to  a  Member  of 
Parliament.  He's  got  views  about  things,  and  he 
makes  an  awful  fag  of  life.  What's  the  good  of  it! 
He'll  be  an  old  man  before  he's  made  up  his  mind 
which  way  he  wants  to  go.  This  sort  of  thing's 
good  enough  for  me!" 

The  magnum  had  arrived,  and  Macheson  lifted 
a  foaming  glass. 

"Davenant,"  he  declared,  "you  are  a  philosopher. 
We  will  drink  to  life  as  it  comes !  To  life  —  as  it 
€omes!" 

They  none  of  them  noticed  the  little  break  in  his 
voice.  A  party  of  newcomers  claimed  their  atten- 
tion. Macheson,  too,  had  seen  them.  He  had 
.seen  her.  Like  a  ghost  at  the  feast,  he  sat  quite 
motionless,  his  glass  half  raised  in  the  air,  the 
colour  gone  from  his  cheeks,  his  eyes  set  in  a  hard 
fast  stare.  Wilhelmina,  in  a  plain  black  velvet 
gown,  with  a  rope  of  pearls  about  her  neck,  her 
dark  hair  simply  arranged  about  her  pallid,  dis- 
tinguished face,  was  passing  down  the  room,  fol- 
lowed closely  by  the  Earl  of  Westerdean,  Deyes, 
and  Lady  Peggy.  Her  first  impulse  had  been  to 
stop;  a  light  sprang  into  her  eyes,  and  a  delicate 
spot  of  colour  burned  in  her  cheeks.  Then  her  eyes 
fell  upon  his  companions;  she  realized  his  surround- 
ings. The  colour  went:  the  momentary  hesitation 
was  gone.  She  passed  on  without  recognition;  Lady 
Peggy,  after  a  curious  glance,  did  the  same.  She 
whispered  and  laughed  in  Deyes'  ear  as  they  seated 


RATHER  A  GHASTLY  PART  175 

themselves  at  an  adjacent  table.  He  looked  round 
behind  her  back  and  nodded,  but  Macheson  did  not 
appear  to  see  him. 

A  momentary  constraint  fell  upon  the  little  party. 
The  American  young  lady  leaned  over  to  ask  Dave- 
nant  who  the  newcomers  were. 

"The  elder  man,"  he  said,  "is  the  Earl  of  Wester- 
dean,  and  the  pretty  fair  woman  Lady  Margaret 
Penshore.  The  other  woman  is  a  Miss  Thorpe- 
Hatton.  Macheson  probably  knows  more  about 
them  than  I  do!" 

Macheson  ignored  the  remark.  He  whispered 
something  in  his  neighbour's  ear,  which  made  her 
laugh  heartily.  The  temporary  check  to  their 
merriment  passed  away.  Macheson  was  soon  laugh- 
ing and  talking  as  much  as  any  of  them. 

"Supper,"  he  declared,  "would  be  the  most  de- 
lightful meal  of  the  day  in  any  other  country  except 
England.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  lights  will  be 
out." 

"But  it  is  barbarous,"  Mademoiselle  Rosine  de- 
clared. "Ah!  Monsieur  Macheson,  you  should  come 
to  Paris!  There  it  is  that  one  may  enjoy  oneself." 

"I  will  come,"  Macheson  answered,  "whenever 
you  will  take  me." 

She  clapped  her  hands. 

"Agreed,"  she  cried.  "I  have  finished  rehearsing. 
I  have  a  week's  'vacance.'  We  will  go  to  Paris 
to-morrow,  all  four  of  us ! " 

"I'm  on,"  Davenant  declared  promptly.  "I  was 
going  anyway  in  a  week  or  two." 

Mademoiselle  Rosine  clapped  her  hands  again. 

"Bravo!"  she  cried.     "And  you,  Mademoiselle?" 


176  THE  MISSIONER 

The  girl  hesitated.     She  glanced  at  Macheson. 

"  We  will  both  come/'  Macheson  declared.  "Miss 
Merriam  will  do  me  the  honour  to  go  as  my  guest." 

"We'll  stay  at  the  Vivandiere,"  Davenant  said. 
"I've  a  pal  there  who  knows  the  ropes  right  up 
to  date.  What  about  the  two-twenty  to-morrow? 
We  shall  get  there  in  time  to  change  and  have 
supper  at  Noyeau's." 

"And  afterwards  —  au  Rat  Mort "  Made- 
moiselle Rosine  cried.  "We  will  drink  a  glass  of 
champagne  with  cher  Monsieur  Francois." 

Davenant  raised  his  glass. 

"One  more  toast,  then,  before  the  bally  lights  go 
out!"  he  exclaimed.  "To  Paris — and  our  trip!" 

Some  one  touched  Macheson  on  the  arm.  He 
turned  sharply  round.  Deyes  was  standing  there. 
Tall  and  immaculately  attired,  there  was  some- 
thing a  little  ghostly  in  the  pallor  of  his  worn, 
beardless  face,  with  its  many  wrinkles  and  tired 
eyes. 

"Forgive  me  for  interrupting  you,  my  dear  fel- 
low," he  said.  "We  are  having  our  coffee  outside, 
just  on  the  left  there.  Miss  Thorpe-Hatton  wants 
you  to  stop  for  a  moment  on  your  way  out." 

Macheson  hesitated  perceptibly.  A  dull  flush  of 
colour  stained  his  cheek,  fading  away  almost  imme- 
diately. He  set  his  teeth  hard. 

"I  shall  be  very  happy,"  he  said,  "to  stop  for  a 
second." 

Deyes  bowed  and  turned  away.  The  room  now 
was  almost  in  darkness,  and  the  people  were  stream- 
ing out  into  the  foyer.  Macheson  paid  the  bill 
and  followed  in  the  wake  of  the  others.  Seeing 


RATHER  A  GHASTLY  PART  177 

him  approach  alone,  Wilhelmina  welcomed  him 
with  a  smile,  and  drew  her  skirts  on  one  side  to 
make  room  for  him  to  sit  down.  He  glanced  doubt- 
fully around.  She  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"  Your  friends,"  she  said,  "are  in  no  hurry.  They 
can  spare  you  for  a  moment." 

There  was  nothing  in  her  tone  to  indicate  any 
surprise  at  finding  him  there,  or  in  such  company. 
She  made  a  few  casual  remarks  in  her  somewhat 
languid  fashion,  and  recalled  him  to  the  recollec- 
tion of  Lady  Peggy,  who  was  to  all  appearance 
flirting  desperately  with  Lord  Westerdean.  Deyes 
had  strolled  across  to  a  neighbouring  group,  and 
was  talking  to  a  well-known  actor.  Wilhelmina 
leaned  towards  him. 

"  Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you,"  she  asked  quietly, 
"that  you  left  me  a  little  abruptly  the  other  after- 
noon?" 

His  eyes  blazed  into  hers.  He  found  it  hard  to 
emulate  the  quiet  restraint  of  her  tone  and  manner. 
It  was  a  trick  which  he  had  never  cultivated,  never 
inherited,  this  playing  with  the  passions  in  kid 
gloves,  this  muzzling  and  harnessing  of  the  emo- 
tions. 

"You  know  why,"  he  said. 

She  inclined  her  head  ever  so  slightly  to  where 
his  late  companions  were  seated. 

"And  this?"  she  asked.  "Am  I  responsible  for 
this,  too?" 

He  laughed  shortly. 

"It  would  never  have  occurred  to  me  to  suggest 
such  a  thing,"  he  declared.  ''I  am  amusing  myself 
a  little.  Why  not?" 


178  THE  MISSIONER 

"Are  you?"  she  asked  calmly. 

Her  eyes  drew  his.     He  almost  fancied  that  the 
quiver  at  the  corners  of  her  lips  was  of  mirth. 

"Somehow,"  she  continued,  "I  am  not  sure  of 
that.  I  watched  you  now  and  then  in  there.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  you  were  playing  a  part  —  rather 
a  ghastly  part!  There's  nothing  so  wearisome,  you 
know,  as  pretending  to  enjoy  yourself." 

''I  had  a  headache  to-night,"  he  said,  frowning. 

She  bent  towards  him. 

"Is  it  better  now?"  she  whispered,  smiling. 

He  threw  out  his  hands  with  a  quick  fierce  gesture. 
It  was  well  that  the  great  room  was  wrapped  in  the 
mysterious  obscurity  of  semi-darkness,  and  that 
every  one  was  occupied  with  the  business  of  fare- 
wells. He  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"I  am  going,"  he  said  thickly.  "My  friends  are 
expecting  me." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Those  are  not  your  friends,"  she  said.  "You 
know  very  well  that  they  never  could  be.  You  can 
go  and  wish  them  good  night.  You  are  going  to  see 
me  home." 

"No!"  he  declared. 

"If  you  please,"  she  begged  softly. 

He  crossed  the  room  unsteadily,  and  made  his  ex- 
cuses with  the  best  grace  he  could.  Mademoiselle 
Rosine  made  a  wry  face.  Miss  Ella  laid  her  fingers 
upon  his  arm  and  looked  anxiously  up  at  him. 

"Say  you  won't  disappoint  us  to-morrow,"  she 
said.  "It's  all  fixed  up  about  Paris,  isn't  it?  Two- 
twenty  from  Charing  Cross." 


RATHER  A  GHASTLY  PART  179 

"  Yes!"  he  answered.  "  I  will  let  you  know  if 
anything  turns  up." 

They  all  stood  around  him.  Davenant  laid  his 
hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  Look  here,  old  chap,"  he  said,  "no  backing  out. 
We've  promised  the  girls,  and  we  mustn't  disap- 
point them." 

"  Monsieur  Macheson  would  not  be  so  cruel," 
Mademoiselle  Rosine  pleaded.  "  He  has  promised, 
and  Englishmen  never  break  their  work.  Is  it  not 
so?  A  party  of  four,  yes!  that  is  very  well.  But 
alone  with  Herbert  here  I  could  not  go.  If  you  do 
not  come,  all  is  spoilt!  Is  it  not  so,  my  friends?  " 

"  Rather!"    Davenant  declared. 

The  other  girl's  fingers  tightened  upon  his  arm. 

"  Don't  go  away  now,"  she  whispered.  "  Come 
round  to  my  flat  and  we'll  all  talk  it  over.  I  will 
sing  you  my  new  song.  I'm  crazy  about  it." 

Macheson  detached  himself  as  well  as  he  could. 

"  I  must  leave  you  now,"  he  declared.  "  I  can 
assure  you  that  I  mean  to  come  to-morrow." 

He  hurried  after  Wilhelmina,  who  was  saying  good 
night  to  her  friends.  A  few  minutes  later  they  were 
being  whirled  wsstwards  in  her  brougham. 


CHAPTER  II 

PLAYING    WITH    FIRE 

"   A  ND  now/5  she  said,  throwing  herself  into  an 
•A*,     easy-chair  and  taking  up  a  fan,"  "  we  can 
talk." 

He  refused  the  chair  which  she  had  motioned  him 
to  wheel  up  to  the  fire.  He  stood  glowering  down 
upon  her,  pale,  stern,  yet  not  wholly  master  of  him- 
self. Against  the  sombre  black  of  her  dress,  her 
neck  and  bosom  shone  like  alabaster.  She  played 
with  her  pearls,  and  looked  up  at  him  with  that 
faint  maddening  curl  of  the  lips  which  he  so  loved 
and  so  hated. 

"  So  you  won't  sit  down.  I  wonder  why  a  man 
always  feels  that  he  can  bully  a  woman  so  much 
better  standing  up."  . 

"  There  is  no  question  of  bullying  you,"  he  an- 
swered shortly.  "  You  are  responsible  for  my 
coming  here.  What  is  it  that  you  want  with  me?  " 

"  Suppose,"  she  murmured,  looking  up  at  him, 
"  that  I  were  to  say  —  another  kiss !  " 

"  Suppose,  on  the  other  hand,"  he  answered 
roughly,  "  you  were  to  tell  me  the  truth." 

She  sighed  gently. 

"  You    jump    so    rapidly    at    conclusions/'    she 


PLAYING  WITH  FIRE  181 

declared.  "Are  you  sure  that  it  would  not  be  the 
truth!" 

''If  it  were,"  he  began  fiercely. 

"If  it  were,"  she  interrupted,  "well?" 

"I  would  rather  kiss  Mademoiselle  Rosine  or  what- 
ever her  name  is,"  he  said.  "I  would  sooner  go  out 
into  the  street  and  kiss  the  first  woman  I  met." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"What  an  impossible  person  you  are!"  she  mur- 
mured. "Of  course,  I  don't  believe  you." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  glanced  at  the 
clock. 

"Are  you  going  to  keep  me  here  long?"  he  asked 
roughly.  "I  am  going  to  Paris  to-morrow,  and  I 
have  to  pack  my  clothes." 

"To  Paris?     With  Mademoiselle  Rosine?" 

"Yes!" 

She  laughed  softly. 

"Oh!  I  think  not,"  she  declared.  "That  sort  of 
thing  wouldn't  amuse  you  a  bit." 

"We  shall  see!"  he  muttered. 

"I  am  sure  that  you  will  not  go,"  she  repeated. 

"Why  not?"  he  demanded. 

"Because  —  I  beg  you  not  to!" 

"You!"  he  exclaimed.  "You!  Do  you  think 
that  I  am  another  of  those  creatures  of  straw  and 
putty,  to  dance  to  your  whims,  to  be  whistled  to  your 
heel,  to  be  fed  with  stray  kisses,  and  an  occasional 
kind  word?  I  think  not!  If  I  am  to  go  to  the 
Devil,  I  will  go  my  own  way." 

"You  inconsistent  creature!"  she  said.  "Why 
not  mine?" 

"I'll  take  my  soul  with  me,  such  as  it  is,"  he 


182  THE  MISSIONER 

answered.  "I'll  not  make  away  with  it  while  my 
feet  are  on  the  earth." 

"  Do  you  know  that  you  are  really  a  very  ex- 
traordinary person?"  she  said. 

"What  I  am  you  are  responsible  for,"  he  an- 
swered. "I  was  all  right  when  you  first  knew  me.  I 
may  have  been  ignorant,  perhaps,  but  at  any  rate 
I  was  sincere.  I  had  a  conscience  and  an  ideal.  Oh! 
I  suppose  you  found  me  very  amusing  —  a  missioner 
who  thought  it  worth  while  to  give  a  part  of  his 
life  to  help  his  fellows  climb  a  few  steps  higher  up. 
What  devil  was  it  that  sent  you  stealing  down  the 
lane  that  night  from  your  house,  I  wonder?" 

She  nodded  slowly. 

"I'm  sorry  you  can  speak  of  it  like  that,"  she 
said.  "To  me  it  was  the  most  delightful  piece  of 
sentiment !  Almost  like  a  poem ! " 

"A  poem!  It  was  the  Devil's  own  poetry  you 
breathed  into  me !  What  a  poor  mad  fool  I  became ! 
You  saw  how  easily  I  gave  my  work  up,  how  I 
sulked  up  to  London,  fighting  with  it  all  the  time, 
with  this  madness  —  this  - 

"Dear  me,"  she  said,  "what  an  Adam  you  are! 
My  dear  Victor,  isn't  it  —  you  are  very,  very  young. 
There  is  no  need  for  you  to  manufacture  a  huge 
tragedy  out  of  a  woman's  kiss." 

"What  else  is  it  but  a  tragedy,"  he  demanded, 
"the  kiss  that  is  a  lie  —  or  worse?  You  brought  me 
here,  you  let  me  hold  you  in  my  arms,  you  filled  my 
brain  with  mad  thoughts,  you  drove  everything  good 
and  worth  having  out  of  life,  you  filled  it  with  what? 
Yourself!  And  then — you  pat  me  on  the  cheek 
and  tell  me  to  come,  and  be  kissed  some  other  day, 


PLAYING  WITH  FIRE  183 

when  you  feel  in  the  humour,  a  wet  afternoon,  per- 
haps, or  when  you  are  feeling  bored,  and  want  to 
hunt  up  a  few  new  emotions!  It  may  be  the  way 
Avith  you  and  your  kind.  I  call  it  hellish ! " 

"Well,"  she  said,  "tell  me  exactly  what  it  is  that 
you  want?" 

"To  be  laughed  at  —  as  you  did  before?"  he 
answered  fiercely.  "Never  mind.  It  was  the  truth. 
You  have  lain  in  my  arms,  you  came  willingly,  your 
lips  have  been  mine!  You  belong  to  me!" 

"To  be  quite  explicit,"  she  murmured,  "you 
think  I  ought  to  marry  you." 

"Yes!"  he  declared  firmly.  "A  kiss  is  a  promise! 
You  seem  to  want  to  live  as  a  'poseuse, '  to  make 
playthings  of  your  emotions  and  mine.  I  wanted 
to  build  up  my  life  firmly,  to  make  it  a  stable  and 
a  useful  thing.  You  came  and  wrecked  it,  and  you 
won't  even  help  me  to  rebuild." 

"Let  us  understand  one  another  thoroughly,"  she 
said.  "Your  complaint  is,  then,  that  I  will  not 
marry  you?" 

The  word,  the  surprising,  amazing  word,  left  her 
lips  again  so  calmly  that  Macheson  was  staggered  a 
little,  confused  by  its  marvellous  significance.  He 
was  thrown  off  his  balance,  and  she  smiled  as  a 
•wrestler  who  has  tripped  his  adversary.  Hence- 
forth she  expected  to  find  him  easier  to  deal 
with. 

"You  know  — that  it  is  not  that  —  altogether/' 
he  faltered. 

"What  is  it  that  you  want  then?"  she  asked 
calmly.  "There  are  not  many  men  in  the  world 
who  have  kissed  —  even  mv  hand.  There  are  fewer 


184  THE  MISSIONER 

still  —  whom  I  have  kissed.  I  thought  that  I  had 
been  rather  kind  to  you." 

"Kind!"  he  threw  out  his  arms  with  a  despairing 
gesture.  "You  call  it  kindness,  the  drop  of  magic 
you  pour  into  a  man's  veins,  the  touch  of  your 
body,  the  breath  of  your  lips  vouchsafed  for  a  second, 
the  elixir  of  a  new  life.  What  is  it  to  you?  A 
caprice!  A  little  dabbling  in  the  emotions,  a  device 
to  make  a  few  minutes  of  the  long  days  pass  more 
smoothly.  Perhaps  it's  the  way  in  your  world, 
this!  You  cheat  yourself  of  a  wholehearted  happi- 
ness by  making  physiological  experiments,  frittering 
away  the  great  chance  out  of  sheer  curiosity  —  or 
something  worse.  And  we  who  don't  understand 
the  game  — we  are  the  victims!" 

"Really,"  she  said  pleasantly,  "you  are  very 
eloquent." 

"And  you,"  he  said,  "are " 

Her  hand  flashed  out  almost  to  his  lips,  long 
shapely  fingers,  ablaze  with  the  dull  fire  of  emer- 
alds. 

"Stop,"  she  commanded,  "you  are  not  quite 
yourself  this  evening.  I  am  afraid  that  you  will 
say  something  which  you  will  regret.  Now  listen. 
You  have  made  a  most  eloquent  attack  upon  me, 
but  you  must  admit  that  it  is  a  perfect  tangle  of 
generalities.  Won't  you  condescend  to  look  me  in 
the  face,  leave  off  vague  complaints,  and  tell  me 
precisely  why  you  have  placed  me  in  the  dock  and 
yourself  upon  the  bench?  In  plain  words,  mind. 
No  evasions.  I  want  the  truth." 

"You  shall  have  it,"  he  answered  grimly. 
"Listen,  then.  I  began  at  Thorpe.  You  were  at 


PLAYING  WITH  FIRE  185 

once  rude  and  kind  to  me.  I  was  a  simple  ass,  of 
course,  and  you  were  a  mistress  in  all  the  arts  which 
go  to  a  man's  undoing.  It  wasn't  an  equal  fight. 
I  struggled  a  little,  but  I  thanked  God  that  I  had 
an  excuse  to  give  up  my  work.  I  came  to  London, 
but  the  poison  was  working.  Every  morning 
before  you  were  up,  and  every  night  after  dark, 
I  walked  round  your  square  —  and  the  days  I  saw 
you  were  the  days  that  counted." 

"Dear  me,  how  interesting!"  she  interrupted 
softly.  "And  to  think  that  I  never  knew!" 

"I  never  meant  you  to  know,"  he  declared.  "A 
fool  I  was  from  the  first,  but  never  fool  enough  to 
misunderstand.  When  I  brought  Letty  Foulton  to 
you,  I  brought  her  against  my  will.  It  was  for  the 
child's  sake.  And  you  were  angry,  and  then  I  saw 
you  again  —  and  you  were  kind!" 

She  smiled  at  him. 

"I'm  glad  you  admit  that,"  she  said  gently.  "I 
thought  that  I  was  very  kind  indeed.  And  you 
repaid  me  —  how?" 

"Kind!"  he  cried  fiercely.  "Yes!  you  were 
kind!  You  were  mine  for  the  moment,  you  lay  in 
my  arms,  you  gave  me  your  lips !  It  was  an  impres- 
sion! It  amused  you  to  see  any  human  being  so 
much  in  earnest.  Then  the  mood  passed.  Your 
dole  of  charity  had  been  given!  I  must  sit  apart  and 
you  must  smooth  your  hair.  What  did  it  all  amount 
to?  An  episode,  a  trifling  debauch  in  sentiment  — 
and  for  me  —  God  knows!" 

"To  return  once  more,"  she  said  patiently, 
"to  your  complaint.  Is  it  that  I  will  not  marry 
you?" 


186  THE  MISSIONER 

"I  did  not  ask  that  —  at  first,"  he  answered. 
"It  is  a  good  deal,  I  know." 

"Then  do  you  want  to  come  and  kiss  me  every 
day?"  she  asked,  "because  I  don't  think  that  that 
would  suit  me  either." 

"I  can  believe  it,"  he  said. 

"I  am  inclined  to  think,"  she  said,  "that  you 
are  a  very  grasping  and  unreasonable  person.  I 
have  permitted  you  privileges  which  more  men  than 
my  modesty  permits  me  to  tell  you  of  have  begged 
for  in  vain.  You  have  accepted  them  —  I  promised 
nothing  beyond,  nor  have  you  asked  for  it.  Yet 
because  I  was  obliged  to  talk  reasonably  to  you,  you 
flung  yourself  out  of  my  house,  and  I  am  left  to 
rescue  you  at  the  expense  of  my  pride,  perhaps  also 
of  my  reputation,  from  associations  which  you  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of." 

"To  talk  reasonably  to  me,"  he  repeated  slowly. 
"  Do  you  remember  what  you  said?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Naturally!     And  what  I  said  was  true  enough." 

"I  was  to  be  content  with  scraps.  To  go  away 
and  forget  you,  until  chance  or  a  whim  of  yours 
should  bring  us  together  again." 

"Did  you  want  so  much  more?"  she  asked,  with  a 
swift  maddening  glance  at  him. 

He  fell  on  his  knees  before  her  couch. 

"Oh!  I  love  you!"  he  said.  "Forgive  me  if  I 
am  unreasonable  or  foolish.  I  can't  help  it.  You 
came  so  unexpectedly,  so  wonderfully!  And  you 
see  I  lost  my  head  as  well  as  my  heart.  I  have  so 
little  to  offer  you  —  and  I  want  so  much." 

Her  hands  rested  for  a  moment  caressingly  upon 


PLAYING  WITH  FIRE  187 

his  shoulders.  A  whole  world  of  wonderful  things 
was  shining  out  of  her  eyes.  It  was  only  her  lips 
that  were  cruel. 

"My  dear  boy,"  she  said,  "you  want  what  I  may 
not  give.  I  am  very,  very  sorry.  I  think  there 
must  have  been  some  sorcery  in  the  air  that  night, 
the  spell  of  the  roses  must  have  crept  into  my  blood. 
I  am  sorry  for  what  I  did.  I  am  very  sorry  that  I 
did  not  leave  you  alone." 

He  rose  heavily  to  his  feet.  His  face  was  grey 
with  suffering. 

"I  ought  to  have  known,"  he  said.  "I  think 
that  I  did  know." 

"All  the  same,"  she  continued,  laying  her  hand 
upon  his  arm,  "I  think  that  you  are  a  rank  ex- 
tremist." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  said. 

"Shall  I  teach  you?"  she  whispered. 

He  flung  her  hand  away. 

"No!"  he  said  savagely. 

She  sighed. 

"I  am  afraid  you  had  better  go  away,"  she  said. 

As  he  closed  the  door  he  fancied  that  he  heard 
a  sob.  But  it  might  have  been  only  fancy. 


CHAPTER  III 

! 

MONSIEUR   S*  AMUSE 

TO-NIGHT,"  young  Davenant  declared,  with 
something  which  was  suspiciously  like  a 
yawn,  "I  really  think  that  we  must  chuck  it  just 
a  little  earlier.  Shall  we  say  that  we  leave  here  at 
two,  and  get  back  to  the  hotel?" 

Mademoiselle  Rosine  pouted,  but  said  nothing. 
The  young  lady  from  America  tried  to  take  Mache- 
son's  hand. 

"Yes!"  she  murmured.  "Do  let's!  I'm  dead 
tired." 

She  whispered  something  in  Macheson's  ear  which 
he  affected  not  to  hear.  He  leaned  back  in  his 
cushioned  seat  and  laughed. 

"What,  go  home  without  seeing  Francois!"  he 
exclaimed.  "He's  keeping  the  corner  table  for  us, 
and  we're  all  going  to  dance  the  Maxixe  with  the 
little  Russian  girl." 

"We  could  telephone,"  Davenant  suggested. 
"  Do  you  know  that  we  haven't  been  to  bed  before 
six  one  morning  since  we  arrived  in  Paris?" 

"Well,  isn't  that  what  we  came  for?"  Macheson 
exclaimed.  "We  can  go  to  bed  at  half-past  twelve 
in  London.  Maitre  d'hotel,  the  wine!  My  friends 


MONSIEUR  S'AMUSE  189 

are  getting  sleepy.  What's  become  of  the  music? 
Tell  our  friend  there — ah!  Monsieur  Henri!" 

He  beckoned  t"o  the  leader  of  the  orchestra,  who 
came  up  bowing,  with  his  violin  under  his  arm. 

"  Monsieur  Henri,  my  friends  are  'triste,'  "  he 
explained.  "They  say  there  is  no  music  here,  no 
life.  They  speak  of  going  home  to  bed.  Look  at 
mademoiselle  here!  She  yawns!  We  did  not  come 
to  Paris  to  yawn.  Something  of  the  liveliest, 
You  understand?  Perhaps  mademoiselle  there  will 
dance." 

"Parfaitement,  monsieur." 

The  man  bowed  himself  away,  with  a  twenty- 
franc  piece  in  the  palm  of  his  hand.  The  orchestra 
began  a  gay  two-step.  Macheson,  starting  up, 
passed  his  arm  round  the  waist  of  a  little  fair- 
haired  Parisienne  just  arriving.  She  threw  her  gold 
satchel  on  to  a  table,  and  they  danced  round  the 
room.  Davenant  watched  them  with  unwilling 
admiration. 

"Well,  Macheson's  a  fair  knockout,"  he  declared. 
"I'm  hanged  if  he  can  keep  still  for  five  minutes. 
And  when  I  knew  him  at  Oxford,  he  was  one  of 
the  most  studious  chaps  in  the  college.  Gad!  he's 
dancing  with  another  girl  now  —  look,  he's  drinking 
champagne  out  of  her  glass.  Shouldn't  stand  it, 
Ella." 

Ella  was  watching  him.  Her  eyes  were  very 
bright,  and  there  was  more  colour  than  usual  in 
her  cheeks. 

"It's  nothing  to  me  what  Mr.  Macheson  does/' 
she  said,  with  a  catch  in  her  voice.  "I  don't 
understand  him  a  bit.  I  think  he's  rnad." 


190  THE  MISSIONER 

Mademoiselle  Rosine  leaned  across  and  whispered 
in  her  ear.  Ella  shook  her  head. 

"You  see  —  it  is  any  girl  with  him,"  she  said. 
"He  dances  with  them,  pays  their  bills — see,  he 
pays  for  Annette  there,  and  away  he  goes  —  laughing, 
You  see  it  is  so  with  them,  too.  He  has  finished 
with  them  now.  He  comes  back  to  us.  Guess 
I'm  not  sure  I  want  him." 

Nevertheless  she  moved  her  skirts  and  made  room 
for  him  by  her  side.  Macheson  came  up  out  of 
breath,  and  poured  himself  out  a  glass  of  wine. 

"What  a  time  they  are  serving  supper!"  he 
exclaimed. 

Davenant  groaned. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  he  exclaimed,  "remember  our 
dinner  at  Lesueur's.  You  can't  be  hungry!" 

"But  I  am,"  Macheson  declared.  "What  are  we 
here  for  but  to  eat  and  drink  and  enjoy  ourselves? 
Jove!  this  is  good  champagne!  Mademoiselle 
Rosine!" 

He  raised  his  glass  and  bowed.  Mademoiselle 
Rosine  laughed  at  him  out  of  her  big  black  eyes. 
He  was  rather  a  fascinating  figure,  this  tall,  good- 
looking  young  Englishman,  who  spoke  French  so 
perfectly  and  danced  so  well. 

"I  would  make  you  come  and  sit  by  me,  Monsieur 
Macheson,"  she  declared,  "but  Ella  would  be 
jealous." 

"What  about  me?"  Davenant  exclaimed. 

"Oh!  la,  la!"  she  answered,  pinching  his 
arm. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  mind,"  Ella  declared.  "I 
guess  we're  all  free  to  talk  to  whom  we  please." 


MONSIEUR  S'AMUSE  191 

Macheson  drew  up  a  chair  and  sat  opposite  to 
them. 

"I  choose  to  look  at  you  both,"  he  said,  banging 
the  table  with  his  knife.  "Gargon,  we  did  not  come 
here  to  eat  your  flowers  or  your  immaculate  table- 
cloth. We  ordered  supper  half  an  hour  ago.  Good! 
It  arrives." 

No  one  but  Macheson  seemed  to  have  much 
appetite.  He  ate  and  he  drank,  and  he  talked 
almost  alone.  He  ordered  another  bottle  of  wine, 
and  the  tongues  of  the  others  became  a  little  looser. 
The  music  was  going  now  all  the  time,  and  many 
couples  were  dancing.  The  fair-haired  girl,  dancing 
with  an  older  woman,  touched  him  on  the  shoulder 
as  she  passed,  and  laughed  into  his  face. 

"There  is  no  one,"  she  murmured,  "who  dances 
like  monsieur." 

He  sprang  up  from  his  seat  and  whirled  her  round 
the  room.  She  leaned  against  his  arm  and  whis- 
pered in  his  ear.  Ella  watched  her  with  darkening 
face. 

"It  is  little  Flossie  from  the  Folies  Marigny," 
Mademoiselle  Rosine  remarked.  "You  must  have  a 
care,  Ella.  She  has  followed  Monsieur  Macheson 
everywhere  with  her  eyes." 

He  returned  to  his  place  and  continued  his  supper. 

"Hang  it  all,  you  people  are  dull  to-night,"  he 
exclaimed.  "Drink  some  more  wine,  Davenant, 
and  look  after  mademoiselle.  Miss  Ella!" 

He  filled  her  glass  and  she  leaned  over  the  table, 

"Every  one  else  seems  to  make  love  to  you,"  she 
whispered.  "I  guess  I'll  have  to  begin.  If  you 
call  me  Miss  Ella  again  I  shall  box  your  ears." 


192  THE  MISSIONER 

"Ella  then,  what  you  will,"  he  exclaimed.  "Re- 
member, all  of  you,  that  we  are  here  to  have  a  good 
time,  not  to  mope.  Davenant,  if  you  don't  sparkle 
up,  I  shall  come  and  sit  between  the  girls  myself." 

"Come  along,"  they  both  cried.  Mademoiselle 
Rosine  held  out  her  arms,  but  Macheson  kept  his 
seat. 

"Let's  go  up  to  the  Rat  Mort  if  we're  going," 
Ella  exclaimed.  "It's  dull  here,  and  I'm  tired  of 
seeing  that  yellow-headed  girl  make  eyes  at  you." 

Macheson  laughed  and  drained  his  glass. 

"Au  Rat  Mort!"  he  cried.     "Good!" 

They  paid  the  bill  arid  all  trooped  out.  The  fair- 
haired  girl  caught  at  Macheson's  hand  as  he  passed. 

" Au  Rat  Mort?"  she  whispered. 

She  threw  a  meaning  glance  at  Ella. 

"Monsieur  is  well  guarded,"  she  said  softly. 

"Malheureusement!"  he  answered,  smiling. 

Davenant  drew  him  on  one  side  as  the  girls  went 
for  their  cloaks. 

"I  say,  old  chap,"  he  began,  "aren't  you  trying 
Ella  a  bit  high?  She's  not  a  bad-tempered  girl, 
you  know,  but  I'm  afraid  there'll  be  a  row  soon." 

Macheson  paused  to  light  a  cigarette. 

"A  row?"  he  answered.     "I  don't  see  why." 

"You're  a  bit  catholic  in  your  attentions,  you 
know,"  Davenant  remarked. 

"Why  not?"  Macheson  answered.  "Ella  is  noth- 
ing to  me.  No  more  are  the  rest  of  them.  I  amuse 
myself  —  that's  all." 

Davenant  looked  as  he  felt,  puzzled. 

"Well,"  he  said.  "I'm  not  sure  that  Ella  sees  it 
in  that  light." 


MONSIEUR  S' AMUSE  193 

"Why  shouldn't  she?"  Macheson  demanded. 

"Well,  hang  it  all,  you  brought  her  over,  didn't 
you?"  Davenant  reminded  him. 

"She  came  over  as  my  guest,"  Macheson  answered. 
"That  is  to  say,  I  pay  for  her  whenever  she  chooses 
to  come  out  with  us,  and  I  pay  or  shall  pay  her  hotel 
bill.  Beyond  that,  I  imagine  that  we  are  both  of  us 
free  to  amuse  ourselves  as  we  please." 

"I  don't  believe  Ella  looks  at  it  in  that  light," 
Davenant  said  hesitatingly.  "You  mean  to  say 
that  there  is  nothing  —  er 

"Of  course  not,"  Macheson  interrupted. 

"Hasn't  she " 

"Oh!  shut  up,"  Macheson  exclaimed.  "Here 
they  come." 

Ella  passed  her  arm  through  his.  Mademoiselle 
Rosine  had  told  her  while  she  stood  on  tiptoe  and 
dabbed  at  her  cheeks  with  a  powder-puff,  that  she 
was  too  cold.  The  Messieurs  Anglais  were  often  so 
difficult.  They  needed  encouragement,  so  very 
much  encouragement.  Then  there  were  more  con- 
fidences, and  Madame  Rosine  was  very  much 
astonished.  What  sort  of  a  man  was  this  Monsieur 
Macheson,  yet  so  gallant,  so  gay!  She  promised 
herself  that  she  would  watch  him. 

"We  will  drive  up  together,  you  and  I,"  Ella 
whispered  in  his  ear,  but  Macheson  only  laughed. 

"I've  hired  a  motor  car  for  the  night,"  he  said. 
"In  you  get!  I'm  going  to  sit  in  front  with  the 
chauffeur  and  sing." 

"You  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  Ella  declared, 
almost  sharply.  "You  will  come  inside  with  us." 

"Anywhere,    anyhow,"    he    answered.     "To    the 


194  THE  MISSIONER 

little  hell  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  Jean,  and  drive  fast," 
he  directed.  "Jove!  it's  two  o'clock!  Hurry  up, 
Davenant.  We  shall  have  no  time  there  at  all." 

There  was  barely  room  for  four.  Mademoiselle 
Rosine  perched  herself  daintily  on  Davenant's 
knee.  Ella  tried  to  draw  Macheson  into  her  arms, 
but  he  sank  on  to  the  floor,  and  sat  with  his  hands 
round  his  knees  singing  a  French  music-hall  song 
of  the  moment.  They  shouted  to  him  to  leave  off, 
but  he  only  sang  the  louder.  Then,  in  a  block,  he 
sprang  from  the  car,  seized  the  whole  stock  of  a 
pavement  flower-seller,  and,  paying  her  magnifi- 
cently, emptied  them  through  the  window  of  the  car 
into  the  girls'  laps,  and  turning  round  as  suddenly  — 
disappeared. 

"He's  mad  —  quite  mad,"  Ella  declared,  with  a 
sigh.  "I  don't  believe  we  shall  see  him  again 
to-night." 

Nevertheless,  he  was  on  the  pavement  outside  the 
Rat  Mort  awaiting  them,  chaffing  the  commission- 
naire.  He  threw  open  the  door  and  welcomed 
them. 

"They  are  turning  people  away  here,"  he  declared. 
"Heaps  of  fun  going  on!  All  the  artistes  from  the 
Circus  are  here,  and  a  party  of  Spaniards.  Francois 
has  kept  our  table.  Come  along." 

Ella  hung  on  to  him  as  they  climbed  the  narrow, 
shabby  staircase. 

"Say,"  she  pleaded  in  his  ear,  "don't  you  want  to 
be  a  little  nicer  to  me  to-night?" 

"Command  me,"  he  answered.  "I  am  in  a  most 
amenable  temper." 

"Sit   with   me   instead  of  wandering   round  so. 


MONSIEUR  S'AMUSE  195 

You  don't  want  to  talk  to  every  pretty  girl,  do 
you?" 

He  laughed. 

"Why  not?  Aren't  we  all  on  the  same  quest? 
It  is  the  'camaraderie7  of  pleasure!" 

They  reached  the  bend  of  the  stairs.  From 
above  they  could  hear  the  music,  the  rattle  of  plates, 
the  hum  of  voices.  She  leaned  towards  him. 

"  Kiss  me,  please,"  she  whispered. 

He  stooped  down  and  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips. 
She  drew  it  slowly  away  and  looked  at  him  curi- 
ously. 

"Your  lips  are  cold,"  she  said. 

He  laughed. 

"The  night  is  young,"  he  answered.  "See,  there 
is  Francois." 

They  passed  on.  Ella  was  a  little  more  content. 
It  was  the  most  promising  thing  he  had  said  to  her. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AT  THE  "  DEAD  RAT  " 

MONSIEUR  FRANCOIS  piloted  the  little 
party  himself  to  the  corner  table  which 
he  had  reserved  for  them.  He  had  taken  a  fancy 
to  this  tall  young  Englishman,  whose  French,  save 
for  a  trifle  of  accent,  was  as  perfect  as  his  own,  who 
spent  money  with  both  hands,  who  was  gay  as  the 
gayest,  and  yet  who  had  the  air  of  being  little  more 
than  a  looker-on  at  the  merriment  which  he  did  so 
much  to  promote. 

"  We  are  full  to-night,  monsieur,"  he  said.  "There 
will  be  a  great  crowd.  Yet  you  see  your  table  waits. 
Mademoiselle  Bolero  herself  begged  for  it,  but  I  said 
always  —  '  No !  no !  no !  It  is  for  monsieur  and  his 
friends.'  " 

"You  are  a  prince,"  Macheson  exclaimed  as 
they  filed  into  their  places.  "To-night  we  are 
going  to  prove  to  ourselves  that  we  are  indeed  in 
Paris !  Sommelier,  the  same  wine  —  in  magnums 
to-night !  My  friend  is  sleepy.  We  must  wake  him 
up.  Ah,  mademoiselle!"  he  waved  his  hand  to  the 
little  short-skirted  danseuse.  "You  must  take  a 
glass  of  wine  with  us,  and  afterwards  —  the  Maxixe! 
Waiter,  a  glass,  a  chair  for  mademoiselle!" 


AT  THE  "  DEAD  RAT  "  197 

Mademoiselle  came  pirouetting  up  to  them.  Mon- 
jieur  was  very  kind.  She  would  take  a  glass  of 
champagne,  and  afterwards  —  yes !  the  Maxixe,  if 
they  desired  it! 

They  sat  with  their  backs  to  the  wall,  facing  the 
little  space  along  which  the  visitors  to  the  cafe  came 
and  went,  and  where,  under  difficulties,  one  danced. 
The  leader  of  the  orchestra  came  bowing  and  smiling 
towards  them,  playing  an  American  waltz,  and 
Macheson,  with  a  laugh,  sprang  up  and  guided 
mademoiselle  through  the  throng  of  people  and 
hurrying  waiters. 

"Monsieur  comes  often  to  Paris?"  she  asked,  as 
they  whirled  around. 

"  For  the  first  time  in  my  life,"  Macheson  answered. 
"We  are  here  on  a  quest!  We  want  to  understand 
what  pleasure  means!" 

Mademoiselle  sighed  ever  so  slightly  under  the 
powder  with  which  her  pretty  face  was  disfigured. 

"One  is  gay  here  always,"  she  said  somewhat 
doubtfully,  "but  it  is  the  people  who  come  seldom 
who  enjoy  themselves  the  most." 

Macheson  laughed  as  he  led  her  back  to  their 
table. 

"You  are  right,"  he  declared.  "Pleasure  is  a 
subtle  thing.  It  does  not  do  to  analyse." 

Macheson  filled  her  glass. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said,  "and  tell  us  about  the  people. 
It  is  early  yet,  I  suppose?" 

She  nodded. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "There  are  many  who 
come  every  night  who  have  not  yet  arrived." 

Ella  leaned  forward  to  ask  a  question,  and  made- 


198  THE  MISSIONED 

moiselle  nodded.  Yes!  that  was  Bolero  at  the  small 
table  opposite.  She  sat  with  three  men,  one  of  whom 
Was  busy  sketching  on  the  back  of  the  menu  card. 
Bolero,,  with  her  wonderful  string  of  pearls,  smileless, 
stolid,  with  the  boredom  in  her  face  of  the  woman 
who  sees  no  more  worlds  to  conquer.  Monsieur  with 
the  ruffled  hair  and  black  eyes?  Yes!  a  Russian 
certainly.  Mademoiselle,  with  a  smile  which  belied 
her  words,  was  not  sure  of  his  name,  but  Francois 
spoke  always  of  His  Highness !  The  gentleman  with 
the  smooth-shaven  face,  who  read  a  newspaper  and 
supped  alone?  Mademoiselle  looked  around.  She 
hesitated.  After  all,  monsieur  and  his  friends  were 
only  casual  visitors.  It  was  not  for  them  to  repeat 
it,  but  the  gentleman  was  a  detective  —  one  of  the 
roost  famous.  He  had  watched  for  some  one  for 
many  nights.  In  the  end  it  would  happen.  Ah! 
Some  one  was  asking  for  a  cake-walk?  Mademoi- 
selle finished  her  wine  hastily  and  sprang  up.  She 
will  return?  But  certainly,  if  monsieur  pleases! 

The  band  struck  up  something  American.  Made- 
moiselle danced  up  and  down  the  little  space  between 
the  tables.  Ella  laid  her  hand  upon  Macheson's 
shoulder. 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  talk  to  every  one?  "  she 
whispered.  "  I  think  you  forget  sometimes  that  you 
are  not  alone." 

Macheson  laughed  impatiently. 

"  My  dear  young  lady,"  he  said,  "you  too  forget 
that  we  are  on  a  quest.  We  are  here  to  understand 
what  pleasure  means  —  how  to  win  it.  We  must 
talk  to  every  one,  do  everything  everybody  else  does. 
It's  no  good  looking  on  all  the  time." 


AT  THE  "  DEAD  RAT  '  199 

"But  you  never  talk  to  me  at  all,"  she  objected. 

"Rubbish!"  he  answered  lightly.  "You  don't 
listen.  Come,  I  am  getting  hungry.  Davenant,  we 
must  order  supper." 

Davenant,  whose  hair  Mademoiselle  Rosine  had 
been  ruffling,  whose  tie  was  no  longer  immaculate, 
and  who  was  beginning  to  realize  that  he  had  drunk 
a  good  deal  of  wine,  leaned  forward  and  regarded 
Macheson  with  admiration. 

"Old  man,"  he  declared,  "you're  great!  Order 
what  you  like.  We  will  eat  it  —  somehow,  won't 
we,  Rosine?" 

She  laughed  assent. 

"For  me,"  she  begged,  "some  caviare,  and  after- 
wards an  omelette." 

"Consomme  and  dry  biscuits  —  and  some  fruit!" 
Ella  suggested. 

Macheson  gave  the  order  and  filled  their  glasses. 
It  was  half-past  two,  and  people  were  beginning  to 
stream  in.  Unattached  ladies  strolled  down  the 
room  —  looking  for  a  friend  —  or  to  make  one.  Their 
more  fortunate  sisters  of  the  "haute  demi-monde" 
were  beginning  to  arrive  with  their  escorts,  from  the 
restaurants  and  cafes.  Greetings  were  shouted 
up  and  down  the  room.  Suddenly  Ella's  face 
clouded  over  again.  It  was  the  girl  in  blue,  with 
whom  Macheson  had  danced  at  Lesueur's,  who  had 
just  entered  with  a  party  of  friends,  women  in 
lace  coats  and  wonderful  opera  cloaks,  the  men  all 
silk-hatted  —  the  shiniest  silk  hats  in  Europe  — 
white  gloves,  supercilious  and  immaculate.  A  burst 
of  applause  greeted  her,  as,  with  her  blue  skirts 
daringly  lifted,  she  danced  down  the  room  to  the 


200  THE  MISSIONER 

table  which  was  hastily  being  prepared  for  them. 
Her  piquant  face  was  wreathed  with  smiles,  she 
shouted  greetings  everywhere,  and  when  she  saw 
Macheson,  she  threw  him  kisses  with  both  hands, 
which  he  stood  up  and  gallantly  returned.  She  was 
the  centre  of  attraction  until  Mademoiselle  Anna 
from  the  Circus  arrived,  and  to  reach  her  place 
leaped  lightly  over  an  intervening  table,  with  a 
wonderful  display  of  red  silk  stocking  and  filmy 
lingerie.  The  place  became  gayer  and  noisier  every 
moment.  Greetings  were  shouted  from  table  to 
table.  The  spirit  of  Bohemianism  seemed  to  flash 
about  the  place  like  quicksilver.  People  who  were 
complete  strangers  drank  one  another's  health  across 
the  room.  The  hard-worked  waiters  were  rushing 
frantically  about.  The  popping  of  corks  was  al- 
most incessant,  a  blue  haze  of  tobacco  smoke  hung 
about  the  room.  Macheson,  leaning  back  in  his 
place,  watched  with  eyes  that  missed  little.  He  saw 
the  keen-faced  little  man  whose  identity  mademoi- 
selle had  disclosed,  calmly  fold  up  his  paper,  light  a 
cigarette,  and  stroll  across  the  room  to  a  table  nearly 
opposite.  A  man  was  sitting  there  with  a  couple 
of  women  —  a  big  man  with  a  flushed  face  and  tum- 
bled hair.  The  waiter  was  opening  a  magnum  of 
champagne  —  everything  seemed  to  promise  a  cheer- 
ful time  for  the  trio.  Then  a  word  was  whispered 
in  his  ear.  The  newcomer  bowed  apologetically  to 
the  ladies  and  accepted  a  glass  of  wine.  But  a 
moment  later  the  two  men  left  the  place  together  — 
and  neither  returned. 

"What    are    you    staring    at?"    Ella    demanded 
curiously. 


AT  THE  "  DEAD  RAT"  201 

Macheson  looked  away  from  the  door  and  smiled 
quietly. 

"I  was  wondering,"  he  answered,  "what  it  was 
like  — outside?" 

"Would  you  like  to  go?"  she  whispered  eagerly  in 
his  ear.  "Fin  ready.  The  others  could  come  on 
afterwards." 

"What,  without  supper?"  he  exclaimed.  "My 
dear  girl,  I'm  starving.  Besides  —  I  didn't  mean 
that  altogether." 

"It's  rather  hard  to  know  what  you  do  mean,"  she 
remarked  with  a  sigh.  "Say,  I  don't  understand 
you  a  little  bit!" 

"How  should  you,"  he  answered,  "when  I'm  in 
the  same  fix  myself?" 

"I  wish  you  were  like  other  boys,"  she  remarked. 
"You' re  so  difficult!" 

He  looked  at  her  —  without  the  mask  —  for  a 
moment,  and  she  drew  back,  wondering.  For  his 
eyes  were  very  weary,  and  they  spoke  to  her  of 
things  which  she  did  not  understand. 

"  Don't  try,"  he  said.     "It  wouldn't  be  any  good." 

Mademoiselle  sank  into  her  chair  opposite  to  them, 
breathless  and  hot.  She  accepted  a  glass  of  wine 
and  begged  for  a  cigarette.  She  whispered  in  Mache- 
son's  ear  that  the  big  man  was  a  forger,  an  affair 
of  the  year  before  last.  He  was  safe  away  from 
Paris,  but  the  price  of  his  liberty  was  more  than  he 
could  pay.  The  man  there  to  the  left  with  the  lady 
in  pink,  no!  not  the  Vicomte,  the  one  beyond,  he 
was  tried  for  murder  a  month  ago.  There  was  a 
witness  missing  —  the  case  fell  through,  but  —  made- 
moiselle shook  her  shoulders  significantly.  The 


202  THE  MISSIONER 

lady  with  fair  hair  and  dark  eyes,  Maeheson  asked, 
was  she  English?  But  certainly,  mademoiselle  as- 
sured him.  She  was  the  divorced  wife  of  an  Eng- 
lish nobleman.  "  To-night  she  is  alone,"  mademoi- 
selle added,  "but  it  is  not  often!  Ah,  monsieur!" 

Mademoiselle  shook  her  finger  across  the  table. 
Macheson's  too  curious  glance  had  provoked  a  smile 
of  invitation  from  the  lady! 

"I  really  think  you  might  remember  that  I  am 
here,"  Ella  remarked.  "It  is  very  interesting  to 
hear  you  talk  French,  but  I  get  tired  of  it!" 

Mademoiselle  took  the  hint  and  flitted  away. 
Supper  arrived  and  created  a  diversion.  Neverthe- 
less, Maeheson  alone  of  the  little  party  seemed  to  have 
absorbed  successfully  the  spirit  of  the  place.  He 
was  almost  recklessly  gay.  He  drank  toasts  right 
and  left.  He  was  the  centre  from  which  the  hilarity 
of  the  room  seemed  to  radiate.  Davenant  was  half 
muddled  with  wine,  and  sleepy.  He  sat  with  his 
arm  about  Rosine,  who  looked  more  often  towards 
Maeheson.  Ella,  who  had  refused  to  eat  anything, 
was  looking  flushed  and  angry.  She  had  tried  to  link 
her  arm  in  her  companion's,  but  he  had  gently  dis- 
engaged it.  She  kept  whispering  in  his  ear,  and  sat 
with  her  eyes  glued  upon  Mademoiselle  Flossie, 
whose  glances  and  smiles  were  all  for  Maeheson. 
And  soon  after  the  end  came.  The  band  began  a 
waltz  —  "  L'  Amoureuse  "  -  it  was  apparently  made- 
moiselle herself  who  had  commanded  it.  With  the 
first  bars,  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and  came  floating 
down  the  room,  her  arms  stretched  out  towards 
Maeheson.  She  leaned  over  the  table,  her  body 
swaying  towards  him,  her  gesture  of  invitation 


AT  THE  "  DEAD  RAT  "  203 

piquant,  bewitching.  Macheson,  springing  at  once 
to  his  feet,  rested  his  hand  for  a  moment  upon  the 
table  which  hemmed  him  in,  and  vaulted  lightly  into 
the  room.  A  chorus  of  laughter  and  bravoes  greeted 
his  feat. 

"But  he  is  un  homme  galant,  this  Englishman," 
a  Frenchwoman  cried  out,  delighted.  Every  one 
was  watching  the  couple.  But  Ella  rose  to  her  feet 
and  called  a  waiter  to  move  the  table. 

"I  am  going,"  she  said  angrily.  "I  have  had 
enough  of  this.  You  people  can  come  when  you 
like." 

They  tried  to  stop  her,  but  it  was  useless.  She 
swept  down  the  room,  taking  not  the  slightest  notice 
of  Macheson  and  his  companion,  a  spot  of  angry 
colour  burning  in  her  cheeks.  Davenant  and  Made- 
moiselle Rosine  stood  up,  preparing  to  follow  her. 
The  former  shouted  to  Macheson,  who  brought  his 
partner  up  to  their  table  and  poured  her  out  a  glass 
of  champagne. 

"Ella's  gone!"  Davenant  exclaimed.  "You'll 
catch  it!" 

Macheson  smiled. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said  quietly.     "Are  you  off  too?" 

"As  soon  as  the  Johnny  brings  the  bill,"  Dave- 
nant answered. 

"I'll  settle  up,"  Macheson  declared.  "Take  the 
automobile.  I'll  follow  you  in  a  few  minutes." 

Mademoiselle  Flossie,  called  back  to  her  own  table, 
hurried  off  with  a  parting  squeeze  of  Macheson's 
hand.  He  sat  down  alone  for  a  moment.  At  the 
other  end  of  the  room,  a  darkey  with  a  doll's  hat  upon 
his  head  was  singing  a  coon  song! 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  AWAKENING 

ALONE  for  the  first  moment  of  the  evening,  it 
seemed  to  Macheson  that  a  sudden  wave  of 
confounding  thoughts  surged  into  his  brain,  at  war 
from  the  first  with  all  that  was  sensuous  and  brilliant 
in  this  new  and  swiftly  developed  phase  of  his 
personality.  He  closed  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  and 
when  again  he  opened  them  it  seemed  indeed  as 
though  a  miracle  had  taken  place.  The  whole 
atmosphere  of  the  room  was  changed.  He  looked 
around,  incredulous,  amazed.  The  men  especially 
were  different.  Such  good  fellows  as  they  had 
.seemed  a  few  moments  ago  —  from  his  altered  point 
of  view  Macheson  regarded  them  now  in  scornful 
curiosity.  Their  ties  were  awry,  their  hair  was 
ruffled,  their  faces  were  paled  or  flushed.  The 
laughter  of  women  rang  still  through  the  place,  but 
the.  music  had  gone  from  their  mirth.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  he  saw  suddenly  through  the  smiles  that 
wreathed  their  lips,  saw  underneath  the  barren 
mockery  of  it  all.  This  hideous  travesty  of  life  in 
its  gentler  moods  had  but  one  end  —  the  cold,  re- 
lentless path  to  oblivion.  Louder  and  louder  the 
laughter  rang,  until  Macheson  felt  that  he  must  close 
his  ears.  The  Devil  was  using  his  whip  indeed. 


THE  AWAKENING  205 

Mademoiselle  la  Danseuse,  seeing  him  alone, 
paused  at  his  table  on  her  way  through  the  room. 

"Monsieur  is  triste,"  she  remarked,  "because  his 
friends  have  departed.'' 

Macheson  shook  his  head. 

"I  am  off,  too,  in  a  few  minutes,"  he  answered. 

A  waiter  with  immovable  face  slipped  a  note  into 
his  hand,  under  cover  of  presenting  the  bill.  Mache- 
son read  it  and  glanced  across  the  room.  Mademoi- 
selle Flossie  was  watching  him  with  uplifted  eye- 
brows and  expectant  smile.  Macheson  shook  his 
head,  slightly  but  unmistakably.  The  young  lady 
in  blue  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  pouted. 

Mademoiselle  la  Danseuse  was  watching  him 
curiously. 

"I  wonder,"  she  said  softly,  "why  monsieur 
comes  here." 

"In  search  of  pleasure,"  Macheson  answered 
grimly. 

She  looked  at  him  fixedly,  and  Macheson,  momen- 
tarily interested,  returned  her  gaze.  Then  he  saw 
that  underneath  the  false  smile,  for  a  moment  laid 
aside,  there  was  something  human  in  her  face. 

"Monsieur  makes  a  brave  show,  but  he  does  not 
succeed,"  she  remarked. 

"And  you?"  he  asked.  "Why  do  you  come 
here?" 

"It  pays  —  very  well,"  she  answered  quietly,  and 
left  him. 

Macheson  settled  his  bill  and  called  for  the 
vestiaire.  In  the  further  corner  of  the  room  two 
women  were  quarrelling.  The  languid  senses  of 
those  who  still  lingered  in  the  place  were  stirred. 


206  THE  MISSIONER 

The  place  was  electrified  instantly  with  a  new  ex- 
pitement.  A  fight,  perhaps  —  every  one  crowded 
around.  Unnoticed,  Macheson  walked  out. 

Down  the  narrow  stairs  he  groped  his  way,  with 
the  music  of  the  orchestra,  the  fierce  hysterical 
cries  of  the  women,  the  mock  cheering  of  those  who 
crowded  round,  in  his  ears.  He  passed  out  into  the 
blue-grey  dawn.  The  stars  were  faint  in  the  sky, 
and  away  eastwards  little  fleecy  red  clouds  were 
strewn  over  the  house-tops.  He  stood  on  the  pave- 
ment and  drew  in  a  long  breath.  The  morning 
breeze  was  like  a  draught  of  cold  water;  it  was  as 
though  he  had  come  back  to  life  again  after  an  in- 
terlude spent  in  some  other  world.  Overhead  he 
could  still  hear  the  music  of  the  "  Valse  Amoureuse," 
the  swell  of  voices.  He  shivered,  with  the  cold 
perhaps  — or  the  memory  of  the  nightmare! 

The  commissionnaire,  hat  in  hand,  summoned  a 
coupe",  and  Macheson  took  his  place  in  the  small 
open  carriage.  Down  the  cobbled  street  they  went, 
the  crazy  vehicle  swaying  upon  its  worn  rubber 
tyres,  past  other  night  resorts  with  their  blaze  of 
lights  and  string  of  waiting  cabs;  past  women  in 
light  boots,  in  strange  costumes,  artificial  in  colour 
and  shape,  painted,  bold-eyed,  uncanny  pilgrims 
in  the  City  of  Pleasure;  past  the  great  churches, 
silent  and  stern  in  the  cold  morning  light;  past 
weary-eyed  scavengers  into  the  heart  of  the  city, 
where  a  thin  stream  of  early  morning  toilers  went 
on  their  relentless  way.  Once  more  he  entered 
the  obscurity  of  his  dimly  lit  hotel,  where  sleepy- 
eyed  servants  were  sweeping,  and  retired  to  his 
room,  into  which  he  let  himself  at  last  with  a  sigh 


THE  AWAKENING  207 

of  relief.  He  threw  up  the  blinds  and  opened  the 
windows.  To  be  alone  within  those  four  walls  was 
a  blessed  thing. 

He  threw  off  his  coat  and  glanced  at  his  watch. 
It  was  half-past  five.  His  eyes  were  hot,  but  he 
had  no  desire  for  sleep.  He  walked  restlessly  up 
and  down  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  threw  him- 
self into  an  easy-chair.  Suddenly  he  looked  up. 

Some  one  was  knocking  softly  at  his  door.  He 
walked  slowly  towards  it  and  paused.  All  his  senses 
were  still  pulsating  with  a  curious  sense  of  excite- 
ment; when  he  stood  still  he  could  almost  hear  his 
heart  beat.  From  outside  came  the  soft  rustling  of 
a  woman's  gown  —  he  knew  very  well  who  it  was 
that  waited  there.  He  stood  still  and  waited. 
Again  there  came  the  knocking,  to  him  almost  like 
a  symbolical  thing  in  its  stealthy,  muffled  insistence. 
He  felt  himself  battling  with  a  sudden  wave  of 
emotions,  struggling  with  a  passionate,  unexpected 
desire  to  answer  the  summons.  He  took  a  quick 
step  forwards.  Then  sanity  came,  and  the  mo- 
ment seemed  far  away  —  a  part  of  the  nightmare 
left  behind.  He  waited  until  he  heard  the  quitt, 
reluctant  footsteps  pass  away  down  the  corridor. 
Then  he  muttered  something  to  himself,  which 
sounded  like  a  prayer.  He  sank  into  a  chair  and 
passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead.  The  recollec- 
tion of  that  moment  was  horrible  to  him.  He 
stared  at  the  door  with  fascinated  eyes.  What  if 
he  had  opened  it! 

He  still  had  no  desire  for  sleep,  but  he  began 
slowly  to  undress.  His  clothes,  his  tie,  everything 
he  had  been  wearing,  seemed  to  him  to  reek  of  ac- 


208  THE  MISSIONER 

cumulated  perfumes  of  the  night,  and  he  flung  them 
from  him  with  feverish  disgust.  There  was  a  small 
bath-room  opening  from  his  sleeping  chamber,  and 
with  a  desire  for  complete  cleanliness  which  was  not 
wholly  physical,  he  filled  the  bath  and  plunged  in. 
The  touch  of  the  cold  water  was  inspiring  and  he 
stepped  out  again  into  a  new  world.  Much  of  the 
horror  of  so  short  a  time  ago  had  gone,  but  with  his 
new  self  had  come  an  ever-increasing  distaste  for 
any  resumption,  in  any  shape  or  form,  of  his  asso- 
ciations of  the  last  few  days.  He  must  get  away. 
He  rummaged  through  his  things  and  found  a  time- 
table. In  less  than  an  hour  he  was  dressed,  his 
clothes  were  packed,  and  the  bill  was  paid.  He 
wrote  a  short  note  to  Davenant  and  a  snorter  one 
to  Ella.  Ignoring  the  events  of  the  last  night,  he 
spoke  of  a  summons  home.  He  enclosed  the  re- 
ceipted hotel  bill,  and  something  with  which  he 
begged  her  to  purchase  a  souvenir  of  her  visit. 
Then  he  drank  some  coffee,  and  with  a  somewhat 
stealthy  air  made  his  way  to  the  lift,  and  thence 
to  the  courtyard  of  the  hotel.  Already  a  small 
victoria  was  laden  with  his  luggage;  the  concierge, 
the  baggage-master,  the  porters,  were  all  tipped 
with  a  prodigality  almost  reckless.  Shaven,  and 
with  a  sting  of  the  cold  water  still  upon  his  skin,  in 
homely  flannel  shirt  and  grey  tweed  travelling 
clothes,  he  felt  like  a  man  restored  to  sanity  and 
health  as  his  cab  lumbered  over  the  long  cobbled 
street,  on  its  way  to  the  Gare  du  Nord.  It  was  only 
a  matter  of  a  few  hours,  and  yet  how  sweet  and  fresh 
the  streets  seemed  in  the  early  morning  sunshine. 
The  shops  were  all  open,  and  the  busy  housewives 


THE  AWAKENING  209 

were  hard  at  work  with  their  bargaining,  the  toilers 
of  the  city  thronged  the  pavements,  everywhere  there 
was  evidence  of  a  real  and  rational  life.  The  city 
of  those  few  hours  ago  was  surely  a  city  of  night- 
mares. The  impassable  river  flowed  between, 
Macheson  leaned  back  in  his  carriage  and  his  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  the  blue  sunlit  sky.  His  lips  moved; 
a  song  of  gratitude  was  in  his  heart.  He  felt  like 
the  prisoner  before  whom  the  iron  gates  have  been 
rolled  back,  disclosing  the  smiling  world! 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  ECHO  OF  A  CRIME 

TV/TACHESON,  by  Jove!  Where  on  earth  have 
J-'-l-  you  sprung  from?" 

Holderness  threw  down  his  pen  and  held  out 
both  his  hands.  Macheson  drew  a  long  sigh  of 
relief. 

"From  the  pigsties,  Dick.  Whew!  It's  good 
to  see  you  again  —  to  be  here!" 

Holderness  surveyed  his  friend  critically. 

"What  have  you  been  up  to?"  he  asked.  "Look 
washed  out,  as  though  you'd  had  a  fever  or  some- 
thing. I've  been  expecting  to  see  you  every  day." 

"I've  been  on  a  pleasure  trip  to  Paris,"  Macheson 
answered.  "Don't  talk  about  it,  for  God's  sake." 

Holderness  roared  with  laughter. 

"You  poor  idiot!"  he  exclaimed.  "Been  on 
the  razzle-dazzle,  I  believe.  I  wish  I'd  known.  I'd 
have  come." 

"It's  all  very  well  to  laugh,"  Macheson  answered. 
"I  feel  like  a  man  who's  been  living  in  a  sewer." 

"Are  you  cured?"  Holderness  asked  abruptly. 

Macheson  hesitated.  As  yet  he  had  not  dared 
to  ask  himself  that  question.  Holderness  watched 
the  struggle  in  his  face. 


THE  ECHO  OF  A  CRIME  211 

"I'm  sorry  I  asked  you  that,"  he  said  quietly. 
"Look  here!  I  know  what  you've  come  to  me  for, 
and  I  can  give  it  you.  You  can  start  at  once  if 
you  like." 

"Work?"  Macheson  asked  eagerly.  "You  mean 
that?" 

"Of  course!  Tons  of  it!  Kenwood's  at  his  wits' 
end  in  Stepney.  He's  started  lecturing,  and  the 
thing's  taken  on,  but  he  can't  go  on  night  after  night. 
We  don't  want  anything  second-rate  either.  Then 
I  want  help  with  the  paper." 

"I'll  help  you  with  the  paper  as  soon  as  you  like," 
Macheson  declared.  "I'd  like  to  go  to  Stepney, 
too,  but  could  we  hit  it,  Henwood  and  I?" 

"Of  course,"  Holderness  answered.  "What  are 
you  thinking  of,  man?  You  haven't  become  a 
straw-splitter,  have  you?" 

"Not  I,"  Macheson  answered  "but  you  have 
crystallized  your  ideas  into  a  cult,  haven't  you?  I 
might  find  myself  on  the  other  side  of  the  traces." 

"Rot!"  Holderness  answered  vigorously.  "Look 
here!  This  is  what  we  call  ugliness  and  dirt.  We 
say  that  these  things  make  for  misery.  We  say  that 
it  is  every  man's  duty,  and  every  woman's,  too,  to 
keep  themselves  clean  and  clean-living,  for  the  sake 
of  the  community.  We  take  the  Christian  code. 
It  is  the  most  complete,  the  most  philosophic,  the 
most  beautiful.  We  preach  it  not  from  the  Christian 
standpoint,  but  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  man 
of  common  sense.  Doctrinal  religions  are  all  very 
well  in  their  way,  but  the  great  bald  fact  remains  that 
the  truth  has  not  been  vouchsafed  to  us  through  any 
of  them.  Therefore  we  say  live  the  life  and  wait. 


212  THE  MISSIONER 

From  a  scientific  point  of  view  we  believe,  of  course, 
in  a  future  state.  It  may  be  that  the  truth  awaits 
us  there.  You  can  work  to  that,  can't  you?" 

"Of  course,"  Macheson  answered,  "but  don't  you 
rather  overlook  the  support  which  doctrine  gives  to 
the  weak  and  superstitious?" 

"Bah!  There  are  the  strong  to  be  considered," 
Holderness  declared.  "Think  how  many  men  of 
average  intelligence  chuck  the  whole  thing  because 
they  can't  stomach  doctrine.  Besides,  these  people 
all  think,  if  you  want  to  confirm  'em  or  baptize  'em 
or  anything  of  that  sort,  that  you've  your  own  axe 
to  grind.  Jolly  suspicious  lot  the  East-Enders,  I 
can  tell  you." 

"I'll  go  and  see  Henwood,"  Macheson  declared. 

Holderness  glanced  at  his  watch. 

"We'll  have  something  to  eat  and  go  together," 
he  declared.  "Look  here,  I'm  really  pushed  or  I 
wouldn't  bother  you.  Can  you  do  me  a  country 
walk  in  November  for  the  paper?  I  have  two  a 
month.  You  can  take  the  last  number  and  see  the 
sort  of  thing." 

"I'll  try,"  Macheson  promised.  "You  can  give 
me  a  couple  of  days,  I  suppose?" 

"A  week  —  only  I  want  it  off  my  mind.  You  can 
get  out  somewhere  and  rub  up  your  impressions. 
We'll  dine  for  half  a  crown  in  Soho,  and  you  shall 
tell  me  about  Paris." 

Macheson  groaned. 

"Shut  up  about  Paris,"  he  begged.  "The  thought 
of  it's  like  a  nightmare  to  me  —  a  nightmare  full  of 
puppet  gnomes,  with  human  masks  and  the  faces  of 
devils  underneath." 


THE  ECHO  OF  A  CRIME  213 

"The  masks  came  off?"  Holderness  asked. 

Macheson  shivered. 

"They  did,"  he  answered. 

"  Do  you  good/'  Holderness  declared  coolly,  lock- 
ing his  desk.  "I've  been  through  it.  So  long  as  the 
masks  came  off  it's  all  right.  What  was  it  sent  you 
there,  Victor?" 

"A  piece  of  madness,"  Macheson  answered  in  a 
low  tone,  "supreme,  utter  madness." 

"Cured?" 

"Oh!  I  hope  so,"  Macheson  answered.  "If  not  — 
well,  I  can  fight." 

Holderness  stood  still  for  a  moment.  There  was 
a  queer  look  in  his  eyes. 

"There  was  a  woman  once,  Victor,"  he  said,  "who 
nearly  made  mincemeat  of  my  life.  She  could  have 
done  it  if  she  liked  —  and  she  wasn't  the  sort  who 
spares.  She  died — thank  God!  You  see  I  know 
something  about  it." 

They  walked  out  arm  in  arm,  and  not  a  word 
passed  between  them  till  they  reached  the  street. 
Then  Holderness  called  a  hansom. 

"I  feel  like  steak."  he  declared.  "Entre-cote 
with  potatoes,  m ait re  d'hotel.  Somehow  I  feel 
particularly  like  steak.  We  will  chuck  Soho  and 
dine  at  the  Cafe  Royal." 

They  talked  mostly  of  Henwood  and  his  work. 
Holderness  spoke  of  it  as  successful,  but  the  man 
himself  was  weakly.  The  strain  of  holding  his 
difficult  audience  night  after  night  had  begun  to  tell 
on  him.  Macheson's  help  would  be  invaluable. 
There  was  a  complete  school  of  night  classes  running 
in  connexion  with  the  work,  and  also  a  library. 


214  THE  MISSIONER 

"You  can  guess  where  the  money  came  from  for 
those/'  he  added,  smiling.  "On  the  women's  side 
there  was  only  the  cookery,  and  the  care  of  the 
children.  All  very  imperfect,  but  with  the  making 
of  great  things  about  it." 

They  went  into  the  Cafe  proper  for  their  coffee, 
sitting  at  a  marble-topped  table,  and  Holderness 
called  for  dominoes.  But  they  had  scarcely  begun 
their  game  before  Macheson  started  from  his  seat, 
and  without  a  word  of  explanation  strode  towards 
the  door.  He  was  just  in  time  to  stop  the  egress 
of  the  man  whom  he  had  seen  slip  from  his  seat 
and  try  to  leave  the  place. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  touching  him  on  the 
shoulder.  "I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

The  man  made  no  further  attempt  at  escape.  He 
was  very  shabby  and  thin,  but  Macheson  had  recog- 
nized him  at  once.  It  was  the  man  who  had  come 
stealing  down  the  lane  from  Thorpe  on  that  memor- 
able night —  the  man  for  whose  escape  from  justice 
he  was  responsible. 

"My  friend  won't  interfere  with  us,"  Macheson 
said,  leading  him  back  to  their  seats.  "Sit  down 
here." 

The  man  sat  down  quietly.  Holderness  took  up 
a  paper. 

"Go  ahead,"  he  said.     "I  shan't  listen." 

"If  I  am  to  talk,"  the  man  said,  "I  must  have 
some  absinthe.  My  throat  is  dry.  I  have  things  to 
say  to  you,  too." 

Macheson  called  a  waiter  and  ordered  it. 

"Look  here,"  the  man  said,  "I  know  all  that  you 
want  to  say  to  me.  I  can  save  you  time.  It  was  I 


THE  ECHO  OF  A  CRIME  215 

who  called  upon  old  Mr.  Hurd.  It  was  out  of 
kindness  that  I  went.  He  has  a  daughter  whom  I 
cannot  find.  She  is  in  danger,  and  I  went  to  warn 
him.  He  struck  me  first.  He  lost  his  temper. 
He  would  not  tell  me  where  to  find  her,  he  would 
not  give  me  even  the  money  I  had  spent  on  my 
journey.  I,  too,  lost  my  temper.  I  returned  the 
blow.  He  fell  down  —  and  I  was  frightened.  So 
I  ran  away." 

Macheson  nodded. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "you  seem  to  have  struck  an 
old  man  because  he  would  not  let  you  blackmail 
him,  and  I,  like  a  fool,  helped  you  to  escape." 

"Blackmail!"  The  man  looked  around  him  as 
though  afraid  of  the  word.  His  cheeks  were 
sunken,  but  his  brown  eyes  were  still  bright.  "  It 
wasn't  that,"  he  said.  "I  brought  information 
that  was  really  valuable.  There  is  a  young  lady 
somewhere  who  is  in  danger  of  her  life.  I  came  to 
warn  him:  I  believed  what  I  had  always  been  told, 
that  she  was  his  daughter.  I  found  out  that  it  was 
a  lie.  It  was  a  conspiracy  against  me.  He  never 
had  a  daughter.  But  I  am  going  to  find  out  who 
she  is!" 

"What  if  I  give  you  up  to  the  police?"  Macheson 
asked. 

"  For  the  sake  of  the  woman  whom  the  old  man 
Ilurd  was  shielding  you  had  better  not.  You  had 
very  much  better  not,"  was  the  hoarse  reply.  "If 
you  do,  it  may  cost  a  woman  her  life." 

"Why  are  you  staying  on  in  England?"  Macheson 
asked. 

"To  find  that  woman,  and  I  will  find  her,"  he 


216  THE  MISS10NER    . 

added,  with  glittering  eyes.  "Listen!  I  have  seen 
her  riding  in  a  carriage,  beautifully  dressed,  with 
coachman  and  footman  upon  the  box,  an  aristocrat. 
I  always  said  that  she  was  that.  It  was  a  plot 
against  us  —  to  call  her  that  old  man's  daughter." 

"All  this  has  nothing  to  do  with  me,"  Macheson 
said  quietly.  "The  only  thing  I  have  to  consider 
is  whether  I  ought  or  ought  not  to  hand  you  over 
to  the  police." 

The  man  eyed  him  craftily.     He  had  little  fear. 

"If  you  did,  sir,"  he  said,  "it  would  be  an  injustice. 
I  only  touched  the  old  man  in  self-defence." 

Macheson  looked  at  him  gravely. 

"I  hope  that  that  is  the  truth,"  he  said.  "You 
can  go." 

The  man  stood  up.  He  did  not  immediately 
depart. 

"What  is   it?"   Macheson  asked. 

"I  was  wondering,  sir,"  he  said,  in  a  confidential 
whisper,  "whether  you  could  not  give  me  an  idea 
as  to  who  the  lady  was  who  called  herself  Stephen 
Hurd's  daughter  in  Paris  six  years  ago." 

Macheson  shook  his  head. 

"I  have  no  idea,"  he  answered  curtly. 

The  man  shuffled  away.  Macheson  lit  a  cigarette 
and  watched  him  for  a  moment  steadfastly  through 
the  large  gilt-framed  mirror. 

"Queer  sort  of  Johnny,  your  friend,"  Holderness 
remarked. 

"He's  a  bad  lot,  I'm  afraid,"  Macheson  answered. 
"Somehow  or  other  I  can't  help  wishing  that  I 
hadn't  seen  him." 

Holderness  laughed. 


THE  ECHO  OF  A  CRIME  217 

"Man  alive,"  he  said,  "it's  a  good  thing  you've 
come  back  to  me,  or  you'd  be  a  bundle  of  nerves 
in  no  time.  We'll  get  along  now,  if  you're  ready. 
You  might  find  something  to  say  to  'em  to-night. 
I  know  Kenwood's  pretty  well  pumped  dry." 

They  left  the  place,  and  took  an  omnibus  city- 
wards. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  COUNTRY   WALK 

IT  was  exactly  such  a  day  as  he  would  have  chosen 
for  his  purpose  when  Macheson  stepped  out  of 
the  train  at  the  wayside  station  and  set  his  face  to- 
wards Thorpe.  A  strong  blustering  wind,  blowing 
down  from  the  hills,  had  dried  the  road  of  all  save  a 
slight  coating  of  mud,  a  wind  fresh  from  the  forest,  so 
fresh  and  strong  that  he  walked  with  his  cap  in  his 
hand  and  his  head  thrown  back,  glad  to  breathe  it 
in  his  lungs  and  feel  the  sting  of  it  on  his  cheeks. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  been  away  for  months, 
as  he  climbed  the  long  hill  towards  the  village.  The 
fields  now  were  brown  instead  of  green,  a  pungent 
smell  of  freshly  turned  earth  and  burning  wood  was 
in  his  nostrils.  The  hedges  and  trees  were  bare;  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  great  house  itself  from  an 
unexpected  point.  Everywhere  he  was  receiving 
familiar  impressions.  He  came  to  the  avenue  up 
which  he  had  passed  on  his  first  visit  to  the  house, 
continually  he  met  carts  bearing  her  name,  and 
villagers,  most  of  whom  he  noticed  with  some  sur- 
prise, looked  at  him  doubtfully.  Presently  he  ar- 
rived at  the  village  itself,  and  stopped  before  the 
long,  low,  white  house  where  Stephen  Kurd  lived. 


A  COUNTRY  WALK  219 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  hesitating  whether  to  fulfil 
this  part  of  his  mission  now,  or  to  wait  until  later  in 
the  day  Eventually,  with  the  idea  of  getting  the 
thing  over,  he  opened  the  gate  and  rang  the  front- 
door bell. 

He  was  shown  into  the  study,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
Stephen  Kurd  came  in,  smoking  a  pipe,  his  hands 
in  his  pockets.  When  he  saw  who  his  visitor  was 
he  stopped  short.  He  did  not  offer  his  hand  or 
ask  Macheson  to  sit  down.  He  looked  at  him  with 
a  heavy  frown  upon  his  face. 

"You  wished  to  see  me?"  he  said. 

"I  did,"  Macheson  answered.  ''Perhaps  my  call 
is  inopportune.  I  have  come  from  London  prac- 
tically for  no  other  reason  than  to  ask  you  a  single 
question." 

Hurd  laughed  shortly. 

' '  You  had  better  ask  it  then/ '  he  said.  "I  thought 
that  you  might  have  other  business  in  the  neighbour- 
hood. Preaching  off,  eh?" 

"My  question  is  simply  this,"  Macheson  said 
calmly.  "Have  you,  or  had  you,  ever  a  sister?" 

A  dull  red  flush  streamed  into  the  young  man's 
face.  He  removed  his  pipe  from  his  mouth  and 
stared  at  Macheson.  His  silence  for  several  mo- 
ments seemed  to  arise  from  the  fact  that  surprise 
had  robbed  him  of  the  powers  of  speech. 

"Who  put  you  up  to  asking  that?"  he  demanded 
sharply. 

Macheson  raised  his  eyebrows  slightly. 

"My  question  is  a  simple  one,"  he  said,  "if  you 
do  not  choose  to  answer  it,  it  is  easy  for  me  to 
procure  the  information  from  elsewhere.  The  first 


220  THE  MISSIONER 

villager  I  met  would  tell  me.  I  preferred  to  come  to 
you." 

"I  have  no  sister,"  Hurd  said  slowly.  "I  never 
had.  Now  you  must  tell  me  why  you  have  come 
here  to  ask  me  this." 

"I  am  told,"  Macheson  said,  "that  years  ago  a 
girl  in  Paris  represented  herself  as  being  your  father's 
daughter.  She  is  being  inquired  for  in  a  somewhat 
mysterious  way." 

"And  what  business  is  it  of  yours?"  Hurd  de- 
manded curtly. 

"None  —  apparently,"  Macheson  answered.  "I 
am  obliged  to  you  for  your  information.  I  will  not 
detain  you  any  longer." 

But  Stephen  Hurd  barred  the  way.  Looking  into 
his  face,  Macheson  saw  alreaay  the  signs  of  a  change 
there.  His  eyes  were  a  little  wild,  and  though  it 
was  early  in  the  morning  he  smelt  of  spirits. 

"No!  you  don't,"  he  declared  truculently. 
"You're  not  going  till  you  tell  me  what  you  mean 
by  that  question." 

"I  am  afraid,"  Macheson  answered,  "that  I  have 
nothing  more  to  tell  you." 

"You  will  tell  me  who  this  mysterious  person 
is,"  Hurd  declared. 

Macheson  shook  his  head. 

"No!"  he  said.  "I  think  that  you  had  better 
let  me  pass." 

"Not  yet,"  Hurd  answered.  "  Look  here! 
You've  been  in  communication  with  the  man  who 
came  here  and  murdered  my  father.  You  know 
where  he  is." 

"Scarcely  that,  was  it?"      Macheson  answered. 


A  COUNTRY  WALK  221 

"There  was  a  struggle,  but  your  father's  death  was 
partly  owing  to  other  causes.  However,  I  did  not 
come  here  to  discuss  that  with  you.  I  came  to  ask 
you  a  question,  which  you  have  answered.  If  you 
will  permit  me  to  pass  I  shall  be  obliged." 

Hurd  hesitated  for  a  moment. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  with  an  assumption  of  good 
nature,  "there's  no  reason  why  you  and  I  should 
quarrel.  I  want  to  know  who  put  you  up  to  asking 
me  that  question.  It  isn't  that  I  want  to  do  him 
any  harm.  I'll  guarantee  his  safety,  if  you  like,  so 
far  as  I  am  concerned.  Only  I'm  anxious  to  meet 
him." 

Macheson  shook  his  head. 

"I  do  not  know  where  he  is  myself,"  he  answered. 
"In  any  case,  I  could  not  give  you  any  information." 

Stephen  Hurd  stood  squarely  in  front  of  the  door. 

"You'll  have  to,"  he  said  doggedly.  "That's  all 
there  is  about  it." 

Macheson  took  a  step  forward. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "I  shouldn't  try  that  on  if 
I  were  you.  I  am  stronger  than  you  are,  and  I 
have  studied  boxing.  I  don't  care  about  fighting, 
but  I  am  going  to  leave  this  room  —  at  once." 

"The  devil  you  are,"  Hurd  cried,  striking  at 
him.  "Take  that,  you  canting  hypocrite." 

Macheson  evaded  the  blow  with  ease.  Exactly 
how  it  happened  he  never  knew,  but  Hurd  found 
himself  a  few  seconds  later  on  his  back  —  and  alone 
in  the  room.  He  sprang  up  and  rushed  after 
Macheson,  who  was  already  in  the  front  garden. 
His  attack  was  so  violent  that  Macheson  had  no 
alternative.  He  knocked  him  into  the  middle  of 


222  THE  MISSIONER 

his  rose  bushes,  and  opened  the  gate,  to  find  him- 
self face  to  face  with  the  last  person  in  the  world 
whom  he  expected  to  see  in  Thorpe.  It  was  Wil- 
helmina  herself  who  was  a  spectator  of  the  scene ! 

"Mr.  Macheson,"  she  said  gravely,  "what  is  the 
meaning  of  this?" 

Macheson  was  taken  too  completely  by  surprise 
to  frame  an  immediate  answer.  Stephen  Hurd  rose 
slowly  to  his  feet,  dabbing  his  mouth  with  his  hand- 
kerchief. 

"A  little  disagreement  between  us,"  he  said,  with 
an  evil  attempt  at  a  smile.  "We  will  settle  it 
another  time." 

"You  will  settle  it  now,"  the  lady  of  the  Manor 
said,  with  authority  in  her  tone.  "Shake  hands, 
if  you  please.  At  once!  I  cannot  have  this  sort  of 
thing  going  on  in  the  village." 

Macheson  held  out  his  hand  without  hesitation. 

"The  quarrel  was  not  of  my  seeking,"  he  said. 
"I  bear  you  no  ill-will,  Hurd.  Will  you  shake 
hands?" 

"No!"  Stephen  Hurd  answered  fiercely. 

Macheson's  hand  fell  to  his  side. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said. 

"You  will  reconsider  that,  Mr.  Hurd,"  Wilhel- 
mina  said  quietly. 

"No!"  he  answered.  "I  am  sorry,  Miss  Thorpe- 
Hatton,  to  seem  ungracious,  but  there  are  reasons 
why  I  cannot  accept  his  hand.  He  knows  them  well 
enough.  We  cannot  possibly  be  friends.  Don't  let 
us  be  hypocrites." 

Wilhelmina  turned  away  coldly. 

"Very  well,"  she  said.     "Mr.  Macheson,  will  you 


A  COUNTRY  WALK  223 

walk  with  me  a  little  way?     I  have  something  to 
say  to  you." 

"  With  pleasure,"  he  answered.  "  I'm  sorry, 
Hurd,"  he  added,  turning  round. 

There  was  no  answer.  Together  they  walked 
up  the  village  street.  Already  the  shock  of  seeing 
her  had  passed  away,  and  he  was  fighting  hard 
against  the  gladness  which  possessed  him.  He  had 
paid  dearly  enough  already  for  his  folly.  He  was 
determined  that  there  should  be  no  return  of  it. 

"  Which  way  were  you  going?  "  she  asked. 

"  To  the  hills,"  he  answered.  "  I  can  leave  you 
at  the  church  entrance.  But  before  you  go  - 

"  I  am  not  going,"  she  answered.  "  I  should 
love  a  walk.  I  will  come  with  you  to  the  hills." 

He  looked  at  her  doubtfully.  She  appeared  to  him 
so  different  a  person  in  her  country  clothes  —  a  dark 
brown  tailor-made  suit,  with  short  skirt,  a  brown 
tam-o'-shanter  and  veil.  She  was  not  much  more 
than  a  child  after  all.  Her  mouth  was  a  little  sad, 
and  she  was  very  pale  and  seemed  tired. 

"  If  you  care  to  walk  so  far,"  he  said  gravely  - 
"  and  with  me!" 

"  What  am  I  expected  to  say  to  that?  "  she  asked 
demurely. 

11  I  think  that  you  know  what  I  mean,"  he  an- 
swered, avoiding  her  eyes.  "  Your  villagers  will 
certainly  think  it  strange  to  see  their  mistress 
walking  with  the  poor  missioner  who  wasn't  allowed 
to  hold  his  services." 

"  I  am  afraid,"  she  answered,  "  that  my  people 
have  learnt  to  expect  the  unexpected  from  me. 
Now  tell  me,"  she  continued,  "  what  has  brought 


224  THE  MISSIONER 

you  back  to  the  scene  of  your  persecutions?  I  am 
hoping  you  are  going  to  tell  me  that  it  is  to  apologize 
for  the  shockingly  rude  way  you  left  me  last  time 
we  met." 

"  I  did  not  know  that  you  were  here,"  he  answered. 
"  I  came  for  two  reasons  —  first,  to  collect  materials 
for  a  short  article  in  a  friend's  magazine,  and 
secondly,  to  ask  a  question  of  Stephen  Kurd." 

"  Apparently,"  she  remarked,  "  your  question 
annoyed  him." 

"  He  seemed  annoyed  before  I  asked  it,"  Mache- 
son  remarked;  "  I  seem  to  have  offended  him  some- 
how or  other." 

"  I  should  imagine,"  she  said  drily,  "  that  that 
is  not  altogether  incomprehensible  to  you." 

So  she  knew  or  guessed  who  it  was  that  had  been 
Letty  Foulton's  companion  in  London.  Macheson 
was  silent.  They  walked  on  for  some  distance, 
climbing  all  the  time,  till  Wilhelmina  paused,  breath- 
less, and  leaned  against  a  gate. 

"  I  hope,"  said  she,  "  that  you  are  collecting  your 
impressions.  If  so,  I  am  sure  they  must  be  in  the 
air,  for  you  have  not  looked  to  the  right  or  to  the 
left." 

He  smiled  and  stood  by  her  side,  looking  down- 
wards. The  village  lay  almost  at  their  feet,  and 
away  beyond  spread  the  mist-wreathed  country, 
still  and  silent  in  the  November  afternoon.  The 
wind  had  fallen,  the  birds  were  songless,  nothing 
remained  of  the  busy  chorus  of  summer  sounds. 
They  stood  on  the  edge  of  a  plantation  —  the  peculiar 
fragrance  of  freshly  turned  earth  from  the  ploughed 
fields  opposite,  and  of  the  carpet  of  wet  leaves  be- 


A  COUNTRY  WALK  225 

neath  their  feet,  had  taken  the  place  of  all  those 
sweeter  perfumes  which  a  short  while  ago  had  seemed 
to  belong  naturally  to  the  place. 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,"  he  said,  "I  have  been 
thinking  more  about  something  which  I  have  to  say 
to  you." 

"Is  it  something  serious?"  she  asked. 

"Rather,"  he  admitted. 

Her  eyebrows  were  faintly  contracted.  She 
looked  up  at  him  pathetically. 

"It  will  keep  for  a  little  time,"  she  said.  "Let 
us  finish  our  walk  first.  I  am  down  here  alone,  and 
have  been  dull.  This  exercise  is  what  I  wanted. 
It  is  doing  me  good.  I  will  not  have  my  afternoon 
spoilt.  See,  I  have  the  key  of  the  gate  here,  we  will 
go  through  the  plantation  and  up  to  the  back  of 
the  beacon." 

She  led  the  way,  giving  him  no  time  to  protest, 
and  he  followed  her,  vaguely  uneasy.  Through  the 
plantation  their  feet  fell  noiselessly  upon  a  carpet  of 
wet  leaves;  outside  on  the  springy  turf  the  rabbits 
scampered  away  in  hundreds  to  their  holes.  Then 
they  began  to  climb.  Beneath  them  the  country 
expanded  and  rolled  away  like  a  piece  of  patchwork, 
dimly  seen  through  a  veil  of  mist.  Wilhelmina 
turned  towards  him  with  a  laugh.  There  was  more 
colour  now  in  her  cheeks.  She  was  breathless  before 
they  reached  the  summit  and  laid  her  hand  upon 
his  arm  for  support. 

"Confess,"  she  said,  "you  like  me  better  here  than 
in  London,  don't  you?" 

"You  are  more  natural,"  he  answered.  "You  are 
more  like  what  I  would  have  you  be." 


226  THE  MISSIONER 

She  sat  down  on  a  piece  of  grey  rock.  They  were 
at  the  summit  now.  Below  was  the  great  house 
with  its  magnificent  avenues  and  park,  the  tiny 
village,  and  the  quaint  church.  Beyond,  a  spread- 
ing landscape  of  undulating  meadows  and  well- 
tilled  land.  The  same  thought  came  to  both  of 
them. 

"Behold,"  she  murmured,  "my  possessions." 

He  nodded. 

"You  should  be  very  proud  of  your  home,"  he 
said  quietly.  "It  is  very  beautiful." 

She  turned  towards  him.  Her  face  was  as  cold 
and  destitute  of  emotion  as  the  stone  on  which  she 
sat. 

"Do  you  wonder,"  she  asked,  "why  I  have  never 
married?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"A  matter  of  temperament,  perhaps,"  he  said. 
"You  are  inclined  to  be  independent,  aren't  you?" 

"There  have  been  things  in  my  life  —  a  very  secret 
chamber,"  she  said  slowly.  "I  think  that  some  day 
I  shall  tell  you  about  it,  for  I  may  need  help." 

"I  shall  be  glad,"  he  said  simply.  "You  know 
that!" 

She  rose  and  shook  out  her  skirts. 

"Come,"  she  said,  "it  is  too  cold  to  sit  down.  I 
am  going  to  take  you  to  Onetree  Farm.  Mrs. 
Foulton  must  give  us  some  tea.  I  have  a  reason, 
too,"  she  added  more  slowly,  "for  taking  you  there." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  MISSING  LETTY 

MACHESON  knew  directly  they  entered  the 
farm  that  Wilhelmina  had  brought  him 
here  for  some  purpose.  For  Mrs.  Foulton  straight- 
ened herself  at  the  sight  of  him,  and  forgot  even  her 
usual  respectful  courtesy  to  the  lady  of  the  Manor. 

''I  have  brought  Mr.  Macheson  to  see  you,  Mrs. 
Foulton,"  Wilhelmina  said.  "We  want  you  to  give 
us  some  tea  —  and  there  is  a  question  which  I  think 
you  ought  to  ask  him." 

The  woman  was  trembling.  She  seemed  for  the 
moment  to  have  no  words. 

"If  you  like,"  Wilhelmina  continued  calmly,  "I 
will  ask  it  for  you.  Did  you  know,  Mr.  Macheson, 
that  Letty  Foulton  has  left  home  and  has  gone  away 
without  a  woid  to  her  mother?" 

"I  did  not  know  it,"  Macheson  answered  gravely. 
"I  am  very  sorry." 

"You  —  didn't  know  it?  You  don't  know  where 
she  is?''  the  woman  demanded  fiercely. 

"Certainly  not,"  Macheson  answered.  "How 
should  I?" 

The  woman  looked  bewildered.  She  turned  to- 
wards Wiihelmina  as  though  for  an  explanation. 


228  THE  MISSIONER 

"Mr.  Macheson  has  himself  to  blame,"  Wilhelmina 
said,  "if  his  action  in  bringing  your  daughter  to  me 
that  night  has  been  misunderstood.  At  any  rate, 
he  cannot  refuse  to  tell  you  now  what  he  refused 
to  tell  me.  You  understand,  Mr.  Macheson,"  she 
added,  turning  towards  him,  "Mrs.  Foulton  insists 
upon  knowing  with  whom  you  found  her  daughter 
having  supper  that  night  in  London." 

Macheson  hesitated  only  for  a  moment. 

'•'Your  daughter  was  with  Mr.  Stephen  Hurd, 
Mrs.  Foulton,"  he  said. 

The  woman  threw  her  apron  over  her  head  and 
hastened  away.  They  heard  her  sobbing  in  the 
kitchen.  Wilhelmina  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"What  a  bore!"  she  remarked.  "We  shan't  get 
any  tea.  People  of  this  sort  have  no  self-control." 

Macheson  looked  at  her  sternly. 

"Have  the  people  here,"  he  asked,  "been  con- 
necting me  with  this  child's  disappearance?  " 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  answered  carelessly.  " Rather 
a  new  line  for  you,  isn't  it  —  the  gay  Lothario !  It's 
your  own  fault.  You  shouldn't  be  so  mysterious." 

"You  didn't  believe  it?"  he  said  shortly. 

"Why  not?  You've  been  —  seeing  life  lately, 
haven't  you?" 

"You  didn't  believe  it?"  he  repeated,  keeping  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  her. 

She  came  over  to  him  and  laid  her  hands  upon 
his  shoulders.  Her  pale  face  was  upturned  to  his. 
It  seemed  open  to  him  to  transform  her  attitude  into 
a  caress. 

"Of  course  not,  dear,"  she  answered.  "If  —  any 
one  else  did,  they  will  soon  know  the  truth." 


THE  MISSING  LETTY  229 

"All  the  same,"  he  muttered,  "it's  horrible.  We 
must  do  something!" 

She  moved  away  from  him  wearily.  His  thoughts 
were  full  of  the  tragedy  of  Letty  Foulton's  disap- 
pearance. He  seemed  scarcely  to  know  that  she 
had  been  almost  in  his  arms.  He  turned  to  her 
suddenly. 

"I  shall  go  back,"  he  said,  "to  speak  once  more 
with  Stephen  Hurd." 

She  looked  into  his  face  and  saw  things  there 
which  terrified  her.  He  had  moved  already  towards 
the  door,  but  she  stood  in  his  way. 

"No!"  she  cried.  "It  is  not  your  affair.  Let  me 
deal  with  him!" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"It  is  no  matter,"  he  said,  "for  a  woman  to  inter- 
fere in." 

"He  will  not  listen  to  you,"  she  continued  eagerly. 
"He  will  tell  you  that  it  is  not  your  concern." 

"It  is  the  concern  of  every  honest  man,"  he 
interrupted.  "You  must  please  let  me  go!" 

She  was  holding  his  arm,  and  she  refused  to  with- 
draw her  fingers.  Then  Mrs.  Fouiton  intervened. 

She  had  smoothed  her  hair  and  was  carrying 
a  tea-tray.  They  both  looked  at  her  as  though 
fascinated. 

"I  hope  I  have  not  kept  you  waiting,  madam," 
she  said  quietly.  "I  had  to  send  Ruth  up  for  the 
cream.  The  boy's  at  Loughborough  market,  and 
I'm  a  bit  shorthanded." 

"I  —  oh!  I'm  sorry  you  bothered  about  the  tea, 
Mrs.  Fouiton,"  Wilheimina  said,  with  an  effort. 
"But  how  good  it  looks!  Come,  Mr.  Macheson!  I 


230  THE  MISSIONER 

don't  know  whether  you've  had  any  lunch,  but  I 
haven't.  I'm  perfectly  ravenous." 

"I've  some  sandwiches  in  my  pocket/'  Macheson 
answered,  moving  slowly  to  the  table,  "but  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  I'd  forgotten  them." 

She  drew  off  her  gloves  and  seated  herself  before 
the  teapot.  All  the  time  her  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
Macheson.  She  was  feverishly  anxious  to  have  him 
also  seat  himself,  and  he  could  scarcely  look  away 
from  the  woman  who,  with  a  face  like  a  mask,  was 
calmly  arranging  the  things  from  the  tray  upon  the 
table.  When  she  left  the  room  he  drew  a  little 
breath. 

"  Do  they  feel  —  really,  these  people,"  he  asked, 
"or  are  they  Stoics?" 

"We  feel  through  our  nerves,"  she  answered, 
"and  they  haven't  many.  Is  that  too  much  cream? 
—  and  pass  the  strawberry  jam,  please." 

He  ate  and  drank  mechanically.  The  charm  of 
this  simple  meal  alone  with  her  was  gone  —  it  seemed 
to  him  that  there  was  tragedy  in  the  arrangement 
of  the  table.  She  talked  to  him  lightly,  and  he 
answered  —  what  he  scarcely  knew.  Suddenly  he 
interposed  a  question. 

"When  did  this  girl  Letty  leave  home?"  he  asked. 
"I  am  not  sure,"  she  answered.  "We  will  ask 
Mrs.  Foulton." 

Mrs.  Foulton  came  silently  in. 

"We  want  to  know,  Mrs.  Foulton,  when  Letty 
went  away,"  Wilhelmina  asked. 

"A  week  ago  to-morrow,  madam,"  Mrs.  Foulton 
answered.  "Is  there  anything  else  you  will  be 
wanting?" 


THE  MISSING  LETTY  231 

"Nothing,  thank  you,"  Wilhelmina  answered,  and 
then,  seeing  that  the  woman  lingered,  she  con- 
tinued: 

"  Are  you  wanting  to  get  rid  of  us?" 

The  woman  hesitated. 

"It  isn't  that,  madam,"  she  said,  "but  I'm  want- 
ing to  step  out  as  soon  as  possible." 

The  same  idea  occurred  at  once  to  both  Wilhelmina 
and  Macheson. 

"You  are  going  down  to  the  village,  Mrs.  Foul- 
ton?"  Wilhelmina  asked  gravely. 

"I'm  going  down  to  have  a  bit  of  talk  with  Mr. 
Stephen  Hurd,  madam,"  she  answered  grimly.  "I'd 
be  glad  to  clear  away  as  soon  as  convenient." 

Wilhelmina  turned  round  in  her  chair,  and  laid 
her  hand  upon  the  woman's  arm. 

"Mrs.  Foulton,"  she  said,  "Mr.  Macheson  and  I 
are  going  to  see  him  at  once.  Leave  it  to  us, 
please." 

Mrs.  Foulton  shook  her  head  doubtfully. 

"  Letty's  my  daughter,  madam,  thank  you  kindly/' 
she  said.  "I  must  go  myself." 

Wilhelmina  shook  her  head. 

"No!"  she  said  firmly.  "You  can  go  and  see  him 
afterwards,  if  you  like.  Mr.  Macheson  and  I  are 
going  to  see  what  we  can  do  first.  Believe  me,  Mrs. 
Foulton,  it  will  be  better  for  Letty." 

The  woman  was  shaken  and  Wilhelmina  pushed 
home  her  advantage. 

"We  are  going  straight  to  the  village  now,  Mrs. 
Foulton,"  she  said.  "You  will  only  have  to  be 
patient  for  a  very  short  time.  Come,  Mr.  Macheson. 
If  you  are  ready  we  will  start." 


232  THE  MISSIONER 

They  walked  briskly  along  the  country  lane, 
through  the  early  twilight.  They  said  little  to  one 
another. 

Macheson  was  profoundly  moved  by  the  tragedy 
of  Letty's  disappearance.  With  his  marvellous  gift 
of  sympathy,  he  had  understood  very  well  the 
suffering  of  the  woman  whom  they  had  just  left. 
He  shivered  when  he  thought  of  the  child.  With 
every  step  they  took,  his  face  resolved  itself  into 
grimmer  lines.  Wilhelmina  was  forced  at  last  to 
protest. 

"After  all,"  she  said,  touching  his  arm,  "this 
young  man  will  scarcely  run  away.  Please  remem- 
ber that  I  am  not  an  athletic  person  —  and  I  have 
not  much  breath  left." 

He  slackened  his  pace  at  once. 

" I  am  sorry,"  he  said.     "I  was  forgetting." 

"Yes,"  she  answered  simply,  "you  were  forgetting. 
I  —  noticed  it!" 

To  Macheson,  her  irritation  seemed  childish  — 
unworthy.  He  knew  so  little  of  women  —  or  their 
moods. 

"What  are  you  going  to  say  to  Stephen  Hurd?" 
he  asked  abruptly. 

"I  shall  make  him  marry  Letty  Foulton,"  she 
answered. 

"Can  you  do  it?"  he  demanded. 

"He  must  marry  her  or  go,"  she  declared.  "I 
will  make  that  quite  clear." 

Macheson  drew  a  little  breath.  He  suddenly 
realized  that  for  all  his  impetuosity,  the  woman  who 
walked  so  calmly  by  his  side  held  the  cards.  He 
slackened  his  pace.  The  lane  had  narrowed  now, 


THE  MISSING  LETTY  233 

and  on  either  side  of  them  was  a  tall  holly  hedge. 
Her  hand  stole  through  his  arm. 

"Well,"  she  said  softly,  "you  have  not  told 
me  yet  whether  your  pilgrimage  to  Paris  was  a 
success." 

He  turned  upon  her  almost  fiercely. 

"Yes!"  he  answered.  "It  was!  A  complete 
success!  I  haven't  an  atom  of  sentiment  left! 
Thank  goodness!" 

She  laughed  softly. 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  she  whispered  in  his  ear. 
"You  went  abroad  to  be  cured  of  an  incurable 
disease.  Do  you  imagine  that  the  Mademoiselle 
Rosines  of  the  world  count  for  anything?  You 
foolish,  foolish  person.  Do  you  imagine  that  if  I 
had  not  known  you  —  I  should  have  let  you  go?" 

"I  am  not  one  of  your  tenants,"  he  answered 
grimly. 

"You  might  be,"  she  laughed. 

"You  are  very  kind,"  he  declared.  "But  I 
need  not  tell  you  that  nothing  in  this  world  would 
induce  me  to  become  one." 

She  walked  on,  humming  to  herself.  He  was  hard 
to  tame,  she  told  herself,  but  the  end  was  so  sure. 
Yet  all  her  experience  of  his  sex  had  shown  her 
nothing  like  this.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had 
played  such  a  part.  Was  it  only  the  novelty  which 
she  found  attractive?  She  stole  an  upward  glance 
at  him  through  the  twilight.  Taller  and  more 
powerful  than  ever  he  seemed  in  the  gathering 
darkness  —  so  far  as  looks  were  concerned  he  was 
certainly  desirable  enough.  And  yet  the  world 
—  her  world,  was  full  of  handsome  men.  It  must 


234  THE  MISSIONER 

be  something  else  which  he  possessed,  som^  other 
less  obvious  gift,  perhaps  that  flavour  of  puritanism 
about  his  speech  and  deportment,  of  which  she 
was  always  conscious.  He  resisted  where  other 
men  not  only  succumbed  but  rushed  to  meet  their 
fate.  It  must  be  that,  or  - 

She  herself  became  suddenly  serious.  She  looked 
straight  ahead  down  the  darkening  lane.  Fate 
could  surely  not  play  her  a  trick  so  scurvy  as  this. 
It  could  not  be  that  she  cared.  Her  hands  were 
suddenly  clenched;  a  little  cry  broke  from  her 
lips.  Her  heart  was  beating  like  a  girl's;  the  deli- 
cious thrill  of  youth  seemed  to  be  thawing  her  long 
frozen  blood.  Not  again!  she  prayed,  not  again! 
It  was  a  catastrophe  this;  grotesque,  impossible! 
She  thrust  out  her  hands,  as  though  to  guard  herself 
from  some  impending  danger.  Macheson  turned 
to  look  at  her  in  surprise,  and  her  eyes  were  glowing 
like  stars. 

"Is  anything  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

She  laughed  unnaturally. 

"A  memory,"  she  answered,  "a  superstition  if 
you  like.  Some  one  was  walking  over  the  grave  of 
my  forgotten  days." 

She  pointed  to  the  front  of  the  low  white  house, 
now  only  a  few  yards  away.  A  dogcart  stood  there 
waiting,  with  some  luggage  at  the  back.  Stephen 
Hurd  himself,  dressed  for  travelling,  was  standing 
in  the  doorway. 


CHAPTER  IX 

FOILED 

"\\  7E  seem  to  be  just  in  time,  Mr.  Hurd,"  Wil- 
helmina  said.  "  Do  you  mind  coming 
back  for  a  moment  into  your  study?  Mr.  Macheson 
and  I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

He  glanced  at  his  watch.  He  was  wholly  unable 
to  conceal  his  annoyance  at  their  appearance. 

"I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  with  strained  civility, 
"that  I  can  only  spare  a  couple  of  minutes." 

"You  are  going  to  town?"  she  asked,  as  he  reluc- 
tantly followed  her. 

"Yes!"  he  answered.  "Mr.  White  wished  to  see 
me  early  to-morrow  morning  about  the  new  leases, 
and  I  have  to  go  before  the  committee  about  this 
Loughborough  water  scheme." 

"These  are  my  affairs,"  she  said,  "so  if  you  should 
miss  your  train,  the  responsibility  will  be  mine." 

"I  can  spare  five  minutes,"  he  answered,  "but  I 
cannot  miss  that  train.  I  have  some  private  engage- 
ments. And,  madam,"  he  continued,  struggling 
with  his  anger,  "I  beg  that  you  will  not  forget  that 
even  if  I  am  in  your  employ,  this  is  my  house,  and 
I  will  not  have  that  man  in  it!" 


236  THE  MISSIONER 

He  pointed  to  Macheson,  who  was  standing  upon 
the  threshold.  Wilhelmina  stood  between  the  two. 

"Mr.  Kurd,"  she  said,  "please  control  yourself. 
There  is  no  reason  why  we  should  any  of  us  quarrel. 
Mr.  Macheson  and  I  are  here  to  speak  to  you  of  a 
matter  in  which  he  has  become  concerned.  I  asked 
him  to  come  here  with  me.  We  have  come  to  see 
you  about  Letty!" 

"What  about  her?"  he  demanded,  with  some 
attempt  at  bravado. 

"We  find  that  there  is  an  impression  in  the 
village  that  Mr.  Macheson  is  responsible  for  her 
disappearance." 

Hurd  seized  his  opportunity  without  a  second's 
hesitation. 

"How  do  you  know  that  it  isn't  the  truth?"  he 
demanded.  "He  wouldn't  be  the  first  of  these 
psalm-singing  missioners  who  have  turned  out  to  be 
hypocrites!" 

Macheson  never  flinched.  Wilhelmina  only 
shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Mr.  Hurd,"  she  said,  "we  will  not  waste  time. 
Mr.  Macheson  and  I  are  both  perfectly  aware  that 
you  are  responsible  for  Letty 's  disappearance." 

"It's  —  it's  false!"  he  declared,  swallowing  with 
an  effort  a  more  obnoxious  word.  "Why,  I  haven't 
left  the  village  since  the  day  she  went  away." 

"But  you  are  going — to-night,"  Wilhelmina 
remarked. 

He  flushed. 

"I'm  going  away  on  business,"  he  answered.  "I 
don't  see  why  it  should  be  taken  for  granted  that 
I'm  going  to  see  her." 


FOILED  237 

"Nevertheless,"  Wilhelmina  said  quietly,  "be- 
tween us  three  there  isn't  the  slightest  doubt  about  it. 
I  tell  you  frankly  that  the  details  of  your  private  life 
in  an  ordinary  way  do  not  interest  me  in  the  least. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  I  will  not  have  you  playing 
the  Don  Juan  amongst  the  daughters  of  my  tenants. 
You  have  been  very  foolish  and  you  will  have  to  pay 
for  it.  I  do  not  wish  to  make  you  lose  your  train 
to-night,  but  you  must  understand  that  if  you  ever 
return  to  Thorpe,  you  must  bring  back  Letty 
Foulton  as  your  wife." 

He  stared  at  her  incredulously. 

"As-  my  —  wife!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Precisely,"  Wilhelmina  answered.  "I  will  give 
her  a  wedding  present  of  a  thousand  pounds,  and 
I  will  see  that  your  own  position  here  is  made  a 
permanent  one." 

He  had  the  appearance  of  a  man  beside  himself 
with  anger.  Was  this  to  be  the  end  of  his  schemes 
and  hopes!  He,  to  marry  the  pretty  uneducated 
daughter  of  a  working  farmer  —  a  girl,  too,  who  was 
his  already  for  the  asking.  He  struggled  with  a 
torrent  of  ugly  words. 

"I  —  I  must  refuse!"  he  said,  denying  himself 
more  vigorous  terms  with  an  effort. 

She  looked  at  him  steadily. 

"Better  think  it  over,  Mr.  Hurd,"  she  said.  "I 
am  in  earnest." 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then,  with  a 
glance  at  the  clock,  moved  towards  the  door. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  "I  will  think  it  over.  I 
will  let  you  know  immediately  I  return  from 
London." 

She  shook  her  head. 


238  THE  MISSIONER 

"  You  can  take  as  long  as  you  like  to  reflect,"  she 
answered,  "but  it  must  be  here  in  this  room.  Mr. 
Macheson  and  I  will  wait." 

He  turned  towards  her. 

"Miss  Thorpe-Hatton,"  he  said,  "will  you  allow 
me  to  speak  to  you  alone  for  two  minutes?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"It  is  not  necessary,"  she  answered.  "Mr.  Mache- 
son does  not  count.  You  can  say  whatever  you  will 
before  him." 

A  smile  that  was  half  a  sneer  curved  his  lips.  He 
was  like  a  rat  in  a  corner,  and  he  knew  that  he  must 
fight.  He  must  use  the  weapon  which  he  had  feared 
with  a  coward's  fear. 

"The  matter  on  which  I  wish  to  .speak  to  you," 
he  said,  looking  straight  at  her,  "is  not  directly 
connected  with  the  affair  which  we  have  been  dis- 
cussing. If  you  will  give  me  two  minutes,  I  think 
I  can  make  you  understand." 

She  met  his  challenge  without  flinching.  She  was 
•a  shade  paler,  perhaps;  the  little  glow  which  the 
walk  through  the  enchanted  twilight  had  brought 
into  her  cheeks  had  faded  away.  But  her  gaze  was 
as  cool  and  contemptuous  as  before.  She  showed 
no  sign  of  any  fear  —  of  any  desire  to  conciliate. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "that  I  can  understand  with- 
out. You  can  consider  that  we  are  alone.  What- 
ever you  may  have  to  say  to  me,  I  should  prefer 
that  Mr.  Macheson  also  heard." 

Macheson  looked  from  one  to  the  other  uneasily. 

"Shall  I  wait  in  the  passage?"  he  asked.  "I 
should  be  within  call." 

"Certainly  not,"  she  answered.     "This  person/' 


FOILED  239 

she  continued,  indicating  Stephen  with  a  scornful 
gesture,  "is,  I  believe,  about  to  make  a  bungling 
attempt  to  blackmail  me!  I  should  much  prefer 
that  you  were  present." 

Stephen  Kurd  drew  a  sharp  breath.  Her  words 
stung  like  whips. 

"I  don't  know  —  about  blackmail,"  he  said,  still 
holding  himself  in.  "I  want  nothing  from  you.  I 
only  ask  to  be  left  alone.  Stop  this  nonsense  about 
Letty  Foulton  and  let  me  catch  my  train.  That's 
all  I  want." 

Wilhelmina  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  You  are  a  very  wearisome  person,"  she  declared. 
"  Did  you  ever  know  me  to  change  my  mind?  Every 
word  I  have  said  to  you  I  absolutely  mean.  No 
more,  no  less!  " 

One  of  the  veins  at  his  temple  was  protruding. 
He  was  passionately  angry. 

"You  think  it  wise,"  he  cried  threateningly,  "to 
make  an  enemy  of  me!" 

She  laughed  derisively,  a  laugh  as  soft  as  velvet, 
but  to  him  maddening. 

"My  dear  young  man,"  she  said  carelessly,  "I 
think  I  should  prefer  you  in  that  capacity.  I  should 
probably  see  less  of  you." 

He  took  a  quick  stride  forward.  He  thrust  his 
face  almost  into  hers.  She  drew  back  with  a  gesture 
of  disgust. 

"You,"  he  cried,  striking  the  table  with  his 
clenched  fist,  "to  pretend  to  care  what  becomes  of 
any  fool  of  a  girl  who  chooses  to  take  a  lover!  Is 
it  because  you're  in  love  with  this  would-be  saint 
here?" 


240  THE  MISSIONER 

He  struck  the  table  again.  He  was  absolutely 
beside  himself  with  rage.  He  seemed  even  to  find 
a  physical  difficulty  in  speech.  Wilhelmina  raised 
her  eyebrows. 

"Go  on,"  she  said  coolly.  "I  am  curious  to  hear 
the  rest." 

Macheson  suddenly  intervened.  He  stepped  be- 
tween the  two. 

"This  has  gone  far  enough,"  he  said  sternly. 
"Hurd,  you  are  losing  your  head.  You  are  saying 
things  yovi  will  be  sorry  for  afterwards.  And  I  can- 
not allow  you  to  speak  like  this  to  a  woman  —  in 
my  presence!" 

"Let  him  go  on,"  Wilhelmina  said  calmly.  "I 
am  beginning  to  find  him  interesting." 

Hurd  laughed  fiercely. 

"What!"  he  cried.  "You  want  to  hear  of  your 
*  Apache'  lover,  the  man  you  took  from  the  gutters 
of  Paris  into 

Macheson  struck  him  full  across  the  mouth,  but 
Wilhelmina  caught  at  his  arm.  She  had  over- 
estimated her  courage  or  her  strength  —  he  was  only 
just  in  time  to  save  her  from  falling. 

"Brute!"  she  muttered,  and  the  colour  fled  from 
her  cheeks  like  breath  from  a  looking-glass. 

Macheson  laid  her  on  the  couch  and  rang  the  bell. 
Suddenly  he  realized  that  they  were  alone.  From 
outside  came  the  sound  of  wheels.  He  sprang  up 
listening.  Wilhelmina,  too,  opened  her  eyes.  She 
waved  him  away  feebly.  He  smiled  back  his  com- 
prehension. 

"The  servants  are  coming,"  he  said.  "I  can 
hear  them.  I  promise  you  that  if  he  catches  the 
train,  I  will!" 


*«GO    ON,"    SHE     SAID    COOLLY,    "I   AM    CURIOUS    TO     HEAR   THE 

REST."     Page  240 


FOILED  241 

He  vaulted  through  the  window  which  he  had 
already  opened.  The  sound  of  wheels  had  died 
away,  but  he  set  his  face  at  once  towards  the  station, 
running  with  long  easy  strides,  and  gradually 
increasing  his  pace.  Stephen  Kurd,  with  his  hand- 
kerchief to  his  mouth,  and  with  all  his  nerves 
tingling  with  a  sense  of  fierce  excitement,  looked 
behind  him  continually,  but  saw  nothing.  Long 
before  he  reached  the  station  he  had  abandoned  all 
fear  of  pursuit.  Yet  during  the  last  half-mile 
Macheson  was  never  more  than  a  few  yards  from 
him,  and  on  St.  Pancras  platform  he  was  almost 
the  first  person  he  encountered. 

" Macheson!     By  God!" 

He  almost  dropped  the  coat  he  was  carrying.  He 
looked  at  Macheson  as  one  might  look  at  a  visitor 
from  Mars.  It  was  not  possible  that  this  could  be 
the  man  from  whom  he  had  fled.  Macheson  smiled 
at  him  grimly. 

"How  did  —  how  did  you  get  here?"  the  young 
man  faltered. 

"By  the  same  train  as  you,"  Macheson  answered. 
"How  else?  Where  are  you  going  to  meet  Letty?" 

Hurd  answered  with  a  curse. 

"Why  the  devil  can't  you  mind  your  own  busi- 
ness?" he  demanded. 

"This  is  my  business,"  Macheson  answered. 

Then  he  turned  abruptly  round  towards  the 
hesitating  figure  of  the  girl  who  had  suddenly  paused 
in  her  swift  approach. 

"It  is  my  business  to  take  you  home,  Letty,"  he 
said.  "  I  have  come  to  fetch  you ! " 

Letty  looked  appealingly  towards  Stephen  Hurd. 


242  THE  MISSIONER 

What  she  saw  in  his  face,  however,  only  terrified 
her. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  thickly,  "I've  had  almost 
enough  of  this.  You  can  go  to  the  devil  —  you  and 
Miss  Thorpe-Hatton,  too!  I  won't  allow  any  one  to 
meddle  in  my  private  concerns.  Come  along,  Letty." 

He  would  have  led  her  away,  but  Macheson  was 
not  to  be  shaken  off.  He  kept  his  place  by  the 
girl's  side. 

"Letty,"   he   said,   "are   you   married  to   him?" 

"Not  yet,"  she  answered  hesitatingly.  "But  we 
are  going  to  be." 

"Where  are  you  going  to  now?" 

She  glanced  towards  Stephen. 

"I  am  going  to  take  her  away  with  me,"  he  de- 
clared sullenly,  "as  soon  as  I  can  get  my  luggage  on 
this  cab." 

"Letty,"  Macheson  said,  "a  few  hours  ago  Miss 
Thorpe-Hatton  offered  Stephen  Kurd  a  dowry  for 
you  of  a  thousand  pounds,  if  he  would  promise  to 
bring  you  back  as  his  wife.  He  refused.  He  has  not 
the  slightest  intention  of  making  you  his  wife.  I 
am  sorry  to  have  to  speak  so  plainly,  but  you  see 
we  haven't  much  time  for  beating  about  the  bush, 
have  we?  I  want  you  to  come  with  me  to  Berkeley 
Square.  Mrs.  Brown  will  look  after  you." 

She  turned  towards  the  young  man  piteously. 

"Stephen,"  she  said,  "tell  Mr.  Macheson  that  he 
is  mistaken.  We  are  going  to  be  married,  aren't 
we?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "At  least  I  always  meant 
to  marry  you.  What  I  shall  do  if  every  one  starts 
bullying  me  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Cut  the 


FOILED  243 

whole  lot  of  you,  I  think,  and  be  off  to  the 
Colonies." 

"You  don't  mean  that,  Stephen,"  she  begged. 

He  pointed  to  the  cab  laden  now  with  his  luggage. 

"Will  you  get  in  or  won't  you,  Letty?"  he  asked. 

She  shrank  back. 

"Stephen,"  she  said,  "I  thought  that  you  were 
going  to  bring  mother  up  with  you." 

He  laughed  hardly. 

"Your  mother  wasn't  ready,"  he  said.  "We  can 
send  for  her  later." 

"Don't  you  think,  Stephen,"  she  pleaded,  "that 
it  would  be  nice  for  me  to  stay  with  Mrs.  Brown  until 
—  until  we  are  married?" 

"If  you  go  to  Mrs.  Brown,"  he  said  gruffly,  "you 
can  stay  with  her.  That's  all!  I  won't  be  fooled 
about  any  longer.  Once  and  for  all,  are  you 
coming?" 

She  took  a  hesitating  step  forward,  but  Macheson 
led  her  firmly  towards  another  hansom. 

"No!"  he  answered,  "she  is  not.  You  know 
where  she  will  be  when  you  have  the  marriage 
license." 

Stephen  sprang  into  his  cab  with  an  oath.  Even 
then  Letty  would  have  followed  him,  but  Macheson 
held  her  arm. 

"You  stay  here,  Letty,"  he  said  firmly. 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  but  she 
obeyed. 


CHAPTER  X 

MYSTERIES  IN  MAYFAIR 

THAT  night,  and  for  many  nights  afterwards, 
Macheson  devoted  himself  to  his  work  in  the 
East  End.  The  fascination  of  the  thing  grew  upon 
him;  he  threw  himself  into  his  task  with  an  energy 
which  carried  him  often  out  of  his  own  life  and  made 
forgetfulness  an  easy  task.  Night  after  night  they 
came,  these  tired,  white-faced  women,  with  a  sprink- 
ling of  sullen,  dejected-looking  men;  night  after 
night  he  pleaded  and  reasoned  with  them,  striving 
with  almost  passionate  earnestness  to  show  them 
how  to  make  the  best  of  the  poor  thing  they  called 
life.  Gradually  his  efforts  began  to  tell  upon  him- 
self. He  grew  thinner,  there  were  shadows  under 
his  eyes,  a  curious  intangible  depression  seemed  to 
settle  upon  him.  Holderness  one  night  sought  him 
out  and  insisted  upon  dinner  together. 

"Look  here,  Victor,"  he  said,  "I  have  a  bone  to 
pick  with  you.  You'd  better  listen!  Don't  sit 
there  staring  round  the  place  as  though  you  saw 
ghosts  everywhere." 

Macheson  smiled  mirthlessly. 

"But  that  is  just  what  I  do  see,"  he  answered. 
"The  conscience  of  every  man  who  knows  must  be 


MYSTERIES  IN  MAYFAIR  245 

haunted  with  them!  The  ghosts  of  starving  men 
and  unsexed  women!  What  keeps  their  hands  from 
our  throats,  Dick?" 

"Common  sense,  you  idiot,"  Holderness  answered 
cheerfully.  "There's  a  refuse  heap  for  every  one  of 
nature's  functions.  You  may  try  to  rake  it  out  and 
cleanse  it,  but  there  isn't  much  to  be  done.  Hang 
that  mission  work,  Victor!  It's  broken  more  hearts 
than  anything  else  on  earth!  A  man  can  but  do 
what  he  may." 

"The  refuse  heap  is  man's  work!"  Macheson 
muttered. 

"But  not  wholly  his  responsibility,"  Holderness 
declared.  "We're  part  of  the  machine,  but  remem- 
ber the  wheels  are  driven  by  fate,  or  God,  or  what- 
ever the  hidden  motive  force  of  the  universe  may 
be.  Don't  lose  yourself,  Macheson!  Sentiment's 
a  good  thing  under  control.  It's  a  sickly  master." 

"You  call  it  sentiment,  if  one  feels  the  horror  of 
this  garbage  heap!  Come  to-night  and  look  into 
their  faces." 

"I've  done  it,"  Holderness  declared.  "I've  been 
through  it  all.  Hang  it  all,  do  you  forget  that  I'm 
the  editor  of  a  Socialist  magazine?  No!  feel  it 
you  must,  but  don't  let  it  upset  your  mental  balance. 
Don't  lose  your  values!" 

Macheson  left  his  friend  in  a  saner  frame  of  mind. 
His  words  came  back  to  him  that  night  as  he  watched 
the  little  stream  of  people  file  out  from  the  bare 
white-washed  building,  with  its  rows  of  cheap  cane 
chairs.  It  was  so  true!  To  give  way  to  despair 
was  simply  to  indulge  in  a  sentimental  debauch. 
Yet  in  a  sense  he  had  never  felt  so  completely  the 


246  THE  MISSIONER 

pitiful  ineffectiveness  of  his  task.  How  could  he 
preach  the  Christian  morality,  expound  the  Chris- 
tian doctrines,  to  a  people  whose  very  sufferings, 
whose  constant  agony,  was  a  hideous  and  glaring 
proof  that  by  the  greater  part  of  the  world  those 
doctrines  were  ignored! 

A  man  was  shown  into  his  room  afterwards,  as  he 
was  putting  on  his  overcoat.  Almost  with  relief 
Macheson  saw  that  he  at  least  had  no  pitiful  tale 
to  tell.  He  was  a  small  dapper  man,  well  dressed, 
and  spoke  with  a  slight  American  accent. 

"Mr.  Macheson,"  he  said,  "I'm  taking  the  liberty 
of  introducing  myself.  Peter  Drayton  my  name  is, 
never  mind  my  profession.  It  wouldn't  interest 
you." 

Macheson  nodded. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you?"  he  asked,  with  some 
curiosity. 

"Say,  I've  been  very  much  interested  in  these 
talks  of  yours  to  the  people,"  Mr.  Drayton  remarked. 
"But  it's  occurred  to  me  that  you're  on  the  wrong 
end  of  the  stick.  That's  why  I'm  here.  You're 
saying  the  right  things,  and  you've  got  the  knack 
of  saying  them  so  that  people  have  just  got  to  listen, 
but  you're  saying  them  to  the  wrong  crowd." 

"I  don't  understand,"  Macheson  was  forced  to 
confess. 

"Well,  I  reckon  it's  simple  enough,"  Drayton 
answered.  "These  people  here  don't  need  to  have 
their  own  misery  thrust  down  their  throats,  even 
vhile  you're  trying  to  show  them  how  to  bear  it. 
It's  the  parties  who  are  responsible  for  it  alk  that 
you  want  to  go  for.  See  what  I  mean?" 


MYSTERIES  IN  MAYFAIR  247 

"I  think  so,"   Macheson  admitted,   "but " 

"Look  here/'  Drayton  interrupted,  "you're  a 
man  of  common  sense,  and  you  know  that  life's 
more  or  less  a  stand-up  fight.  Those  that  are 
licked  live  here  in  Whitechapel  —  if  you  can  call  it 
living  —  and  those  who  win  get  to  Belgravia!  It's 
a  pitiless  sort  of  affair  this  fight,  but  there  it  is. 
Now  which  of  the  two  do  you  think  need  preaching 
to,  these  people,  or  the  people  who  are  responsible 
for  them?  You've  started  a  mission  in  White- 
chapel  —  it  would  have  been  more  logical,  if  there's 
a  word  of  truth  in  your  religion,  to  have  started  it 
in  Mayfair." 

Macheson  laughed. 

"They  wouldn't  listen  to  me,"  he  declared. 

"I'd  see  to  that,"  Drayton  answered  quickly. 
"It's  my  business.  I  want  you  to  give  a  course  of  — 
well,  we'd  call  them  lectures,  in  the  West  End.  You 
can  say  what  you  like.  You  can  pitch  into  'em  as 
hot  as  Hell!  I'll  guarantee  you  a  crowded  audience 
every  time." 

"I  have  no  interest  in  those  people,"  Macheson 
said.  "Why  should  I  go  and  lecture  to  them? 
My  sympathies  are  all  down  here." 

"Exactly,"  Drayton  answered.  "I  want  you  to 
stir  up  the  people  who  can  really  help,  people  who 
can  give  millions,  pull  down  these  miles  of  fever- 
tainted  rat  holes,  endow  farms  here  and  abroad. 
Lash  them  till  their  conscience  squeaks!  See? 
What's  the  good  of  preaching  to  these  people?  That 
won't  do  any  good!  You  want  to  preach  to  the 
really  ignorant,  the  really  depraved,  the  West- 
Enders!" 


248  THE  MISSIONER 

"Do  I  understand,"  Macheson  asked,  "that  you 
have  a  definite  scheme  in  which  you  are  inviting  me 
to  take  part?" 

Drayton  lit  a  cigarette  and  led  the  way  out. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "I'll  walk  with  you  as  far 
as  you're  going,  and  tell  you  all  about  it."  .  .  . 

It  was  a  sort  of  pilgrimage  which  Macheson  under- 
took during  these  restless  nights,  a  walk  seemingly 
purposeless,  the  sole  luxury  which  he  permitted  him- 
self. Always  about  the  same  hour  he  found  himself 
on  the  garden  side  of  Berkeley  Square,  always  he 
stood  and  looked,  for  a  period  of  time  of  which  he 
took  no  count,  at  the  tall,  dimly  lit  house,  across 
whose  portals  he  had  once  passed  into  fairyland. 
Then  came  a  night  when  everything  was  changed. 
Lights  flashed  from  the  windows,  freshly  painted 
window-boxes  had  been  filled  with  flowers,  scarce 
enough  now;  everything  seemed  to  denote  a  sudden 
spirit  of  activity.  Macheson  stood  and  watched  with 
a  curious  sense  of  excitement  stirring  in  his  blood. 
He  knew  very  well  what  was  happening.  She  was 
coming,  perhaps  had  already  arrived  in  town.  He 
realized  as  he  stood  there,  a  silent  motionless  figure, 
how  far  gone  in  his  folly  he  really  was,  how  closely 
woven  were  the  bonds  that  held  him.  For  time 
seemed  to  him  of  no  account  beside  the  chance  of 
seeing  her,  if  only  for  a  moment,  as  she  passed  in 
or  out.  He  never  knew  how  long  he  waited  there 
—  it  was  long  enough,  however,  for  his  patience  to 
be  rewarded.  Smoothly,  with  flashing  lights,  a 
little  electric  brougham  turned  into  the  Square  and 
pulled  up  immediately  opposite  to  him.  The  tall 
footman  sprang  to  the  ground,  the  door  flew  open, 


MYSTERIES  IN  MAYFAIR  249 

he  saw  a  slim,  familiar  figure,  veiled  and  dressed  in 
a  dark  travelling  costume,  pass  leisurely  up  the 
steps  and  into  the  arc  of  light  which  streamed  through 
the  open  door.  The  brougham  glided  away,  the 
door  was  closed,  she  was  gone.  Still  Macheson 
leaned  forward,  watching  the  spot  where  she  had 
been,  his  heart  thumping  against  his  sides,  his 
senses  thrilled  with  the  excitement  of  her  coming. 
Suddenly  his  attention  was  diverted  in  a  curious 
manner.  He  became  conscious  that  he  was  not  the 
only  watcher  under  the  chestnut  trees.  A  man  had 
stolen  out  from  amongst  the  deeper  shadows  close  up 
to  the  railings,  and  was  standing  by  his  side.  Mache- 
son recognized  him  with  a  start. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

His  fellow-watcher,  too,  showed  signs  of  excite- 
ment. His  cheeks  were  flushed.  He  pointed  across 
the  road  with  shaking  finger,  and  looked  up  into 
Macheson's  face  with  a  triumphant  chuckle. 

"Run  to  earth  at  last!"  he  exclaimed.  "You 
saw  her!  You  saw  her,  too!" 

"I  saw  a  lady  enter  that  house,"  Macheson 
answered.  "What  of  it?" 

The  man  whom  he  had  once  befriended  drew  a 
breath  between  his  clenched  teeth. 

"There  she  goes!"  he  muttered.  "The  woman 
who  dared  to  call  herself  the  daughter  of  a  poor  land- 
agent!  The  woman  who  is  deceiving  her  world  to- 
day as  she  deceived  us — once!  Bah!  It  is  finished !" 

He  started  to  cross  the  road.  Macheson  kept 
by  his  side. 

"Where  are  you  off  to?"  he  asked. 

The  man  pointed  to  the  brilliantly  lit  house. 


250  THE  MISSIONER 

"There!"  he  answered  fiercely.  "I  am  going  to 
see  her.  To-night!  At  once!  She  shall  not  escape 
me  this  time!" 

"What  do  you  want  with  her?"  Macheson  asked. 
.  "Money  —  or  exposure,  such  an  exposure,"  the 
man  answered.  "But  she  will  pay.  She  owes  a 
good  deal;  but  she  will  pay." 

"And  supposing/'  Macheson  said,  "that  I  were  to 
tell  you  that  this  lady  is  a  friend  of  mine,  and  that 
I  will  not  have  you  intrude  upon  her  —  what  then?" 

Something  venomous  gleamed  in  the  man's  eyes. 
A  short  unpleasant  laugh  escaped  him. 

"Not  all  the  devils  in  hell,"  he  declared,  "would 
keep  me  from  going  to  her.  For  five  years  she's 
fooled  us!  Not  a  day  longer,  not  an  hour!" 

Macheson's  hand  rested  lightly  upon  the  man's 
shoulder. 

"  Can  you  reach  her  from  prison?  "  he  asked  calmly. 

The  man  turned  and  snarled  at  him.  He  knew 
well  enough  that  escape  or  resistance  alike  was 
hopeless.  He  was  like  a  pigmy  in  the  hands  of  the 
man  who  held  him. 

"This  isn't  your  affair,"  he  pleaded  earnestly. 
"Let  me  go,  or  I  shall  do  you  a  mischief  some  day. 
Remember  it  was  you  who  helped  me  to  escape. 
You  can't  give  me  away  now." 

"I  helped  you  to  escape,"  Macheson  said,  "but  I 
did  not  know  what  you  had  done.  There  is  another 
matter.  You  have  to  go  away  from  here  quietly 
and  swear  never  to  molest  - 

The  man  ducked  with  a  sudden  backward  move- 
ment, and  tried  to  escape,  but  Macheson  was  on  his 
guard. 


MYSTERIES  IN  MAYFAIR  251 

"You  are  a  fool,"  the  man  hissed  out,  his  small 
bead-like  eyes  glittering  as  though  touched  with 
fire,  his  thick  red  lips  parted,  showing  his  ugly  teeth. 
"It  is  money  alone  I  want  from  her.  I  have  but  to 
breathe  her  name  and  this  address  in  a  certain 
quarter  of  Paris,  and  there  are  others  who  would 
take  her  life.  Let  me  go!" 

Then  Macheson  was  conscious  of  a  familiar  figure 
crossing  the  street  in  their  direction.  He  had  seen 
him  come  furtively  out  of  the  house  they  had  been 
watching,  and  had  recognized  him  at  once.  It  was 
Stephen  Kurd.  Keeping  his  grasp  upon  his  captive's 
shoulder,  Macheson  intercepted  him. 

"Hurd,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

Hurd  started,  and  his  face  darkened  with  anger 
when  he  saw  who  it  was  that  had  accosted  him. 
Macheson  continued  hurriedly. 

"Look  here,"  he  said.  "I  owe  you  this  at 
any  rate.  I  have  just  caught  our  friend  here 
watching  this  house.  Have  you  ever  seen  him 
before?" 

Hurd  looked  down  into  the  face  of  the  man  who, 
with  an  evil  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  had  resigned 
himself  —  for  the  present  —  to  the  inevitable. 

"Never/'  he  answered.  "Can't  say  I'm  par- 
ticularly anxious  to  see  him  again.  Convert  of 
yours?"  he  asked,  with  a  sneer. 

"He  is  the  man  who  visited  your  father  on  the 
night  of  his  death,"  Macheson  said. 

Stephen  Hurd  was  like  a  man  electrified.  He 
seized  hold  of  the  other's  arm  in  excitement. 

"  Is  this  true?"  he  demanded. 

The  man  blinked  his  eyes. 


252  THE  MISSIONER 

"You  have  to  prove  it,"  he  said.  "I  admit 
nothing." 

"You  can  leave  him  to  me,"  Stephen  Hurd  said, 
turning  to  Macheson. 

Macheson  nodded  and  prepared  to  walk  on. 

"There  is  a  police-station  behind  to  the  left,"  he 
remarked. 

Hurd  took  no  notice.  He  had  thrust  his  arm 
tightly  through  the  other  man's. 

"I  have  been  looking  for  you,"  he  said  eagerly. 
"We  must  have  a  talk  together.  We  will  take  this 
hansom,"  he  added,  hailing  one. 

The  man  drew  back. 

"Are  you  going  to  take  me  to  the  police-station?" 
he  demanded. 

"Police-station,  no!"  Hurd  answered  roughly. 
"What  good  would  that  do  me?  Get  in!  Cafe 
Monico!" 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    WAY    OF    SALVATION 

HOLDERNESS  leaned  back  in  his  worn  leather 
chair  and  shouted  with  laughter.  He  treated 
with  absolute  indifference  the  white  anger  in  Mache- 
son's  face. 

"Victor/'  he  cried,  "don't  look  at  me  as  though 
you  wanted  to  punch  my  head.  Down  on  your 
knees,  man,  and  pray  for  a  sense  of  humour.  It's 
the  very  salt  of  life." 

"That's  all  very  well,"  Macheson  answered,  "but 
I  can't  exactly  see  — 

"That's  because  you're  deficient,"  Holderness 
shouted,  wiping  the  tears  from  his  eyes.  "I  haven't 
laughed  so  much  for  ages.  Here  you  come  from 
the  East  to  the  West,  with  all  the  world's  tragedy 
tearing  at  your  heart,  flowing  from  your  lips,  a 
flagellator,  a  hater  of  the  people  to  whom  you  speak, 
seeking  only  to  strike  and  to  wound,  and  they  accept 
you  as  a  new  sensation!  They  bare  their  back  to 
your  whip!  They  have  made  you  the  fashion! 
Oh!  this  funny,  funny  world  of  ours!" 

Macheson  smiled  grimly. 

"I'll  grant  you  the  elements  of  humour  in  the 
situation,"  he  said,  "but  you  can  scarcely  expect 


254  THE  MISSIONER 

me  to  appreciate  it,  can  you?  I  never  came  here  to 
play  the  mountebank,  to  provide  a  new  sensation 
for  these  tired  dolls  of  Society.  Dick,  do  you 
think  St.  Paul  could  have  opened  their  eyes?" 

Holderness  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  declared.  " They're  a  diffi- 
cult class  —  you  see,  they  have  pluck,  and  a  sort  of 
fantastic  philosophy  which  goes  with  breeding. 
They're  not  easily  scared." 

Macheson  thought  of  his  friend's  words  later  in 
the  afternoon,  when  he  stood  on  the  slightly  raised 
platform  of  the  fashionable  room  where  his  lectures 
were  given.  Not  a  chair  was  empty.  Macheson, 
as  he  entered,  gazed  long  and  steadily  into  those 
rows  of  tired,  distinguished-looking  faces,  and  felt 
in  the  atmosphere  the  delicate  wave  of  perfume 
shaken  from  their  clothes  —  the  indescribable  effect 
of  femininity.  There  were  men  there,  too,  mostly 
as  escorts,  correctly  dressed,  bored,  vacuous,  from 
intent  rather  than  lack  of  intelligence.  Macheson 
himself,  carelessly  dressed  from  design,  his  fine  figure 
ill-clad,  with  untidy  boots  and  shock  hair,  felt  his 
anger  slowly  rising  as  he  marked  the  stir  which  his 
coming  had  caused.  He  to  be  the  showman  of  such 
a  crowd!  It  was  maddening!  That  day  he  spoke 
to  them  without  even  the  ghost  of  a  smile  parting  his 
lips.  He  sought  to  create  no  sympathy.  He  cracked 
his  whip  with  the  cool  deliberation  of  a  Russian 
executioner. 

...  "I  was  asked  the  other  day,"  he  remarked, 
"by  an  enterprising  journalist,  what  made  me 
decide  to  come  here  and  deliver  these  lectures  to 
you.  I  did  not  tell  him.  It  is  because  I  wanted 


THE  WAY  OF  SALVATION  255 

to  speak  to  the  most  ignorant  class  in  Christendom. 
You  are  that  class.  If  you  have  intelligence,  you 
make  it  the  servant  of  your  whims.  If  you  have 
imagination,  you  use  it  to  enlarge  the  sphere  of 
your  vices.  You  are  worse  than  the  ostrich  who 
buries  his  head  in  the  sand  —  you  prefer  to  go  under- 
ground altogether.  .  .  . 

"As  you  sit  here  —  with  every  tick  of  your  jewelled 
watches,  out  in  the  world  of  which  in  your  sublime 
selfishness  you  know  nothing,  a  child  dies,  a  woman 
is  given  to  sin,  a  man's  heart  is  broken.  What  do 
you  care?  What  do  you  know  of  that  infernal,  that 
everlasting  tragedy  of  sin  and  suffering  that  seethes 
around  you?  Why  should  you  care?  Your  life 
is  attuned  to  the  most  pagan  philosophy  which 
all  the  ages  of  sin  have  evolved.  You  have  sunk  so 
low  that  you  are  content  to  sit  and  listen  to  the  story 
of  your  ignominy.  ..." 

What  fascination  was  it  that  kept  them  in  their 
places?  Holderness,  who  was  sitting  in  the  last  row, 
fully  expected  to  see  them  leave  their  seats  and 
stream  out;  Macheson  himself  would  not  have  been 
surprised.  His  voice  had  no  particular  charm,  his 
words  were  simple  words  of  abuse,  he  attempted  no 
rhetorical  flourishes,  nor  any  of  the  tricks  of  oratory. 
He  stood  there  like  a  disgusted  schoolmaster  lectur- 
ing a  rebellious  and  backward  school.  Holderness, 
when  he  saw  that  no  one  left,  chuckled  to  himself. 
Macheson,  aware  that  his  powers  of  invective  were 
spent,  suddenly  changed  his  tone. 

Consciously  or  unconsciously,  he  told  them, 
every  one  was  seeking  to  fashion  his  life  according 
to  some  hidden  philosophy,  some  unrealized  ideal. 


2.56  THE  MISSIONER 

With  religion,  as  it  was  commonly  understood,  he 
had,  in  that  place  at  any  rate,  nothing  to  do.  Even 
the  selfish  drifting  down  the  stream  of  idle  pleasures, 
which  constituted  life  for  most  of  them,  was  the 
passive  acceptance  in  their  consciousness  of  the  old 
"faineant"  philosophy  of  "laissez  faire."  Had 
they  any  idea  of  the  magnificent  stimulus  which  work 
could  give  to  the  emptiest  life!  For  health's  sake 
alone, they  were  willing  sometimes  to  step  out  of  the 
rut  of  their  easy-going  existence,  to  discipline  their 
bodies  at  foreign  watering-places,  to  take  up  courses 
of  physical  exercises,  as  prescribed  by  the  fashionable 
crank  of  the  moment.  What  they  would  do  for  their 
bodies,  why  should  they  not  try  for  their  souls! 
The  one  was  surely  as  near  decay  as  the  other  — 
the  care  of  it,  if  only  they  would  realize  it,  was  ten 
thousand  times  more  important!  He  had  called 
them,  perhaps,  many  hard  names.  There  was  one 
he  could  not  call  them.  He  could  not  call  them 
cowards.  On  the  contrary,  he  thought  them  the 
bravest  people  he  had  ever  known,  to  live  the  lives 
they  did,  and  await  the  end  with  the  equanimity 
they  showed.  The  equivalent  of  Hell,  whatever  it 
might  be,  had  evidently  no  terrors  for  them .... 

He  concluded  his  address  abruptly,  as  his  custom 
was,  a  few  minutes  later,  and  turned  at  once  to 
leave  the  platform.  But  this  afternoon  an  unex- 
pected incident  occurred.  A  man  from  the  middle 
of  the  audience  rose  up  and  called  to  him  by  name. 

Macheson,  surprised,  paused  and  turned  round. 
It  was  Deyes  who  stood  there,  immaculately  dressed 
in  morning  clothes,  his  long  face  pale  as  ever,  his 
manner  absolutely  and  entirely  composed.  He  was 


THE  WAY  OF  SALVATION  257 

swinging  his  eyeglass  by  its  narrow  black  ribbon, 
and  leaning  a  little  forward. 

"Sir,"  he  said,  once  more  addressing  Macheson, 
"as  one  of  the  audience  whose  shortcomings  have 
so  —  er  —  profoundly  impressed  you,  may  I  take 
the  liberty  of  asking  you  a  question?  I  ask  it  of  you 
publicly  because  I  imagine  that  there  are  many 
others  here  besides  myself  to  whom  your  answer  may 
prove  interesting." 

Macheson  came  slowly  to  the  front  of  the  platform. 

"Ask  your  question,  sir,  by  all  means,"  he  said. 

Deyes  bowed. 

"  You  remind  me,  if  I  may  be  permitted  to  say  so/' 
he  continued,  "of  the  prophet  who  went  about  with 
sackcloth  and  ashes  on  his  head,  crying  'Woe!  woe! 
woe!'  but  who  was  either  unable  or  unwilling  to 
suggest  any  means  by  which  that  doleful  cry  might 
be  replaced  by  one  of  more  cheerful  import.  In 
plain  words,  sir,  according  to  your  lights  —  what 
must  we  do  to  be  saved?" 

There  was  a  murmur  of  interest  amongst  the 
audience.  There  were  many  upon  whom  Macheson's 
stinging  words  and  direct  denunciation  had  left  their 
mark.  They  sat  up  eagerly  and  waited  for  his 
answer.  He  came  to  the  edge  of  the  platform  and 
looked  thoughtfully  into  their  faces. 

"In  this  city,"  he  said,  "it  should  not  be  neces- 
sary for  any  one  to  ask  that  question.  My  answer 
may  seem  trite  and  hackneyed.  Yet  if  you  will 
accept  it,  you  may  come  to  the  truth.  Take  a  han- 
som cab,  and  drive  as  far,  say,  as  Whitechapel. 
Walk  —  in  any  direction  —  for  half  a  mile.  Look 
into  the  faces  of  the  men,  the  women  and  the  children. 


258  THE  MISSIONER 

Then  go  home  and  think.  You  will  say  at  first 
nothing  can  be  done  for  these  people.  They  have 
dropped  down  too  low,  they  have  lost  their  human- 
ity, they  only  justify  the  natural  law  of  the  survival 
of  the  fittest.  Think  again!  A  hemisphere  may 
divide  the  East  and  the  West  of  this  great  city; 
but  these  are  human  beings  as  you  are  a  human 
being,  they  are  your  brothers  and  your  sisters.  Con- 
sider for  a  moment  this  natural  law  of  yours.  It  is 
based  upon  the  principle  of  the  see-saw.  Those 
who  are  down,  are  down  because  the  others  are  up. 
Those  men  are  beasts,  those  women  are  unsexed, 
those  children  are  growing  up  with  dirt  upon  their 
bodies  and  sin  in  their  hearts,  because  you  others 
are  what  you  are.  Because!  Consider  that.  Con- 
sider it  well,  and  take  up  your  responsibility.  They 
die  that  you  may  flourish!  Do  you  think  that  the 
sea-saw  will  be  always  one  way?  A  revolution  in 
this  world,  or  justice  in  the  next!  Which  would  you 
rather  face?" 

Deyes  bowed  slightly. 

"You  have  given  me  an  answer,  sir,  for  which  I 
thank  you,"  he  answered.  "But  you  must  allow  me 
to  remind  you  of  the  great  stream  of  gold  which 
flows  all  the  while  from  the  West  to  the  East.  Hos- 
pitals, mission  houses,  orphanages,  colonial  farms  — • 
are  we  to  have  no  credit  for  these?" 

"Very  little,"  Macheson  answered,  "for  you  give 
of  your  superfluity.  Charity  has  little  to  do  with 
the  cheque-book.  Besides,  you  must  remember 
this.  I  am  not  here  to-day  to  plead  the  cause  of 
the  East.  I  am  here  to  talk  to  you  of  your  own 
lives.  I  represent,  if  you  are  pleased  to  have  it 


THE  WAY  OF  SALVATION  259 

so,  the  Sandow  of  your  spiritual  body.  I  ask  you 
to  submit  your  souls  to  my  treatment,  as  the  pro- 
fessor of  physical  culture  would  ask  for  your  bodies. 
This  is  not  a  matter  of  religion  at  all.  It  is  a  matter, 
if  you  choose  to  call  it  so,  of  philosophy.  Your 
souls  need  exercise.  You  need  a  course  of  thinking 
and  working  for  the  good  of  some  one  else  —  not  for 
your  own  benefit.  Give  up  one  sin  in  your  life,  and 
replace  it  with  a  whole-hearted  effort  to  rescue  one 
unfortunate  person  from  sin  and  despair,  and  you 
will  gain  what  I  understand  to  be  the  desire  of  all 
of  you  —  a  new  pleasure.  Briefly,  for  your  own 
sakes,  from  your  own  point  of  view,  it  is  a  personal 
charity  which  I  am  advocating,  as  distinguished 
from  the  charity  of  the  cheque-book." 

"One  more  question,  Mr.  Macheson,"  Deyes 
continued  quietly.  "  Where  do  we  find  the  lost 
souls  —  I  mean  upon  what  principle  of  selection  do 
we  work?" 

"There  are  many  excellent  institutions  through 
which  you  can  come  into  touch  with  them,"  Mache- 
son answered.  "You  can  hear  of  these  through 
the  clergyman  of  your  own  parish,  or  the  Bishop  of 
London." 

Deyes  thanked  him  and  sat  down.  The  lecture 
was  over,  and  the  people  slowly  dispersed.  Mache- 
son passed  into  the  room  at  the  back  of  the  plat- 
form. Drayton,  who  was  waiting  for  him  there, 
pushed  over  a  box  of  cigarettes.  He  knew  that 
Macheson  loved  to  smoke  directly  he  had  finished 
talking. 

"Macheson,"  he  said  solemnly,  "you're  a  marvel. 
Why,  in  my  country,  I  guess  they'd  come  and  scratch 


260  THE  MISSIONER 

your  eyes  out  before  they'd  stand  plain  speaking 
like  that." 

Macheson  was  looking  away  into  vacancy. 

"I  wonder/'  he  said  softly,  "if  it  does  any  good 
—  any  real  good?" 

Drayton,  who  was  looking  through  a  cash-book 
with  gleaming  eyes,  opened  his  lips  to  speak,  but 
thought  better  of  it.  He  pointed  instead  towards 
the  table. 

The  usual  pile  of  notes  was  there  —  all  the  latest 
novelties  in  fancy  stationery  were  represented  there, 
crested,  coroneted,  scented.  Macheson  began  to  tear 
them  open  and  as  rapidly  destroy  them  with  a  little 
gesture  of  disgust.  They  were  mostly  of  the  same 
type.  The  girls  were  all  so  anxious  to  do  a  little  good, 
so  tired  of  the  wearisome  round  of  Society,  wouldn't 
Mr.  Macheson  be  very  kind  and  give  them  some  per- 
sonal advice?  Couldn't  he  meet  them  somewhere,  or 
might  they  come  and  see  him?  They  did  hope  that 
he  wouldn't  think  them  bold!  It  would  be  such  a  help 
to  talk  to  him.  The  married  ladies  were  bolder  still. 
They  felt  the  same  craving  for  advice,  but  their  pro- 
posals were  more  definite.  Mr.  Macheson  must  come 
and  see  them!  They  would  be  quite  alone  (under- 
lined), there  should  be  no  one  else  there  to  worry  him. 
Then  followed  times  and  addresses.  One  lady,  whose 
coronet  and  motto  were  familiar  to  him,  would  take 
no  denial.  He  was  to  come  that  afternoon.  Her 
carriage  was  waiting  at  the  side  door  and  would  bring 
him  directly  to  her.  Macheson  looked  up  quickly. 
Through  the  window  he  could  see  a  small  brougham, 
with  cockaded  footman  and  coachman,  waiting  out- 
,side.  He  swept  all  the  notes  into  the  flames. 


THE  WAY  OF  SALVATION  261 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  go  and  send  that  carriage 
away,  Drayton,"  he  begged. 

Drayton  laughed  and  disappeared.  On  the  table 
there  remained  one  more  note  —  a  square  envelope, 
less  conspicuous  perhaps  than  the  others,  but  more 
distinguished-looking.  Macheson  broke  the  seal. 
On  half  a  sheet  of  paper  were  scrawled  these  few 
lines  only. 

"  For    Heaven's    sake,    come   to    me    at   once.  - 
Wilhelmina." 

He  started  and  caught  up  his  hat.  In  a  few 
minutes  he  was  on  his  way  to  Berkeley  Square. 


CHAPTER  XII 

JEAN  LE  ROI 

OVER  a  marble-topped  table  in  a  retired  corner 
of  the  cafe  Stephen  Hurd  listened  to  the 
story  of  the  man  whom  Macheson  had  delivered 
over  to  him,  and  the  longer  he  listened  the  more 
interesting  he  found  it.  When  at  last  all  was  told, 
the  table  itself  was  strewn  with  cigarette  stumps, 
and  their  glasses  had  three  times  been  replenished. 
The  faces  of  both  men  were  flushed. 

"You  see,"  the  little  man  said,  glancing  for  a 
moment  at  his  yellow-stained  fingers,  and  then 
beginning  to  puff  furiously  at  a  fresh  cigarette, 
"the  time  is  of  the  shortest.  Jean  le  Roi  —  well,  his 
time  is  up!  He  may  be  here  to-morrow,  the  next 
day,  who  can  tell?  And  when  he  comes  he  will  kill 
her!  That  is  certain!" 

Hurd  shuddered  and  drank  some  of  his  whisky. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "we  mustn't  have  that. 
Revenge,  of  course,  he  will  want  —  but  there  are 
other  ways." 

The  little  man  blinked  his  eyes. 

"You  do  not  know  Jean  le  Roi,"  he  said.  "To 
him  it  is  a  pastime  to  kill!  For  myself  I  do  not 
know  the  passions  as  he  would  know  them.  Where 


JEAN  LE  ROI  263 

there  was  money  I  would  not  kill.  It  would  be  as 
you  have  said  — -  there  are  other  ways.  But  Jean  le 
Roi  is  different." 

"Jean  le  Roi,  as  you  call  him,  must  be  tamed, 
then,"  Hurd  said.  "You  speak  of  money.  I  have 
been  her  agent,  so  I  can  tell  you.  What  do  you 
think  might  be  the  income  of  this  lady?" 

Johnson  was  deeply  interested.  He  leaned  across 
the  table.  His  little  black  eyes  were  alight  with 
cupidity. 

"Who  can  tell?"  he  murmured.  "It  might  be 
two,  perhaps  three,  four  thousand  English  pounds 
a  year.  Eh?" 

Stephen  Hurd  laughed  scornfully. 

"Four  thousand  a  year!"   he  repeated.     "Bah! 

She  fooled  you  all  to  some  purpose!     Her  income  is 

-listen  —  is  forty  thousand  pounds  a  year!     You 

hear  that,   my  friend?     Forty  thousand  pounds  a 

year!" 

The  little  man's  face  was  a  study  in  varying  ex- 
pressions. He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  then 
crouched  forward  over  the  table.  His  beady  eyes 
were  almost  protruding,  a  spot  of  deeper  colour,  an 
ugly  purple  patch,  burned  upon  his  cheeks.  The 
words  seemed  frozen  upon  his  lips.  Twice  he  opened 
his  mouth  to  speak  and  said  nothing. 

Stephen  Hurd  took  off  his  hat  and  placed  it  upon 
the  table  before  him.  His  listener's  emotion  was 
catching. 

"Forty  thousand  pounds,"  he  said  softly,  "livres 
you  call  it!  It  is  a  great  fortune.  She  has  de- 
ceived you,  too!  You  must  make  her  pay  for  it." 

Johnson    was    recovering    himself     slowly.     His 


264  THE  MISSIONER 

voice  when  he  spoke  shook,  but  it  was  with  the 
dawn  of  a  vicious  anger! 

"Yes!"  he  muttered,  speaking  as  though  to  him- 
self, "she  has  deceived  us!  She  must  pay!  God, 
how  she  must  pay!" 

His  fingers  twitched  upon  the  table.  He  was 
blinking  rapidly. 

"There  is  the  money,"  he  said  softly,  "and  there 
is  Jean  le  Hoi!" 

It  was  a  night  of  shocks  for  him.  Again  his 
eyes  were  dilated.  He  shrank  back  in  his  chair 
and  clutched  at  Kurd's  sleeve. 

"It  is  himself!"  he  whispered  hoarsely.  "It  is 
Jean  le  Roi!  God  in  Heaven,  he  will  kill  us!" 

Johnson  collapsed  for  a  moment.  In  his  face  were 
all  the  evidences  of  an  abject  fear,  and  Stephen 
Hurd  was  in  very  nearly  as  evil  a  plight.  The  man 
who  was  threading  his  way  through  the  tables  to- 
wards them  was  alarming  enough  in  his  appear- 
ance and  expression  to  have  cowed  braver  men. 

"Jean  le  Roi  —  he  fears  nothing  —  he  cares  for 
nothing,  not  even  for  me,  his  father,"  Johnson 
muttered  with  chattering  teeth.  "If  he  feels  like 
it  he  will  kill  us  as  we  sit  here." 

Hurd,  who  was  facing  the  man,  watched  him  with 
fascinated  eyes.  He  was  over  six  feet  high,  and 
magnificently  formed.  Notwithstanding  his  ready 
made  clothes,  fresh  from  a  French  tailor,  his  brown 
hat  ludicrously  too  small  and  the  blue  stubble  of 
a  recently  cropped  beard,  he  was  almost  as  impres- 
sively handsome  as  he  was  repulsive  to  look  at.  He 
walked  with  the  grace  of  a  savage  animal  in  his 
native  woods;  there  was  something  indeed  not  alto- 


JEAN  LE  ROI  265 

gether  human  in  the  gleam  of  his  white  teeth  and 
stealthy,  faultless  movements.  He  came  straight 
to  where  they  sat,  and  his  hand  fell  like  a  vice  upon 
the  shoulder  of  the  shrinking  elder  man.  It  was 
further  characteristic  of  this  strange  being  that 
when  he  spoke  there  was  no  anger  in  his  tone.  His 
voice  indeed  was  scarcely  raised  above  a  whisper. 

"What  are  you  doing  here,  old  man?"  he  asked. 
"  Why  did  you  not  meet  me?  Eh?  " 

"I  will  tell  you,  tell  you  everything,  Jean,"  John- 
son answered.  "Sit  down  here  and  drink  with  us. 
Everything  shall  be  made  quite  clear  to  you.  I 
came  for  your  sake  —  to  get  money,  Jean.  Sit  down, 
my  boy." 

Jean  le  Roi  sat  down. 

"I  sit  with  you,"  he  said,  "and  I  will  drink  with 
you,  because  I  have  no  money  to  pay  for  my- 
self. But  we  are  not  friends  yet,  old  man!  I 
will  hear  first  what  you  have  done.  And  who  is 
this?" 

His  eyes  flashed  as  he  looked  upon  Hurd.  John- 
son interposed  quickly. 

"A  friend,  a  good  friend,"  he  exclaimed.  "He 
will  be  of  service  to  us,  great  service.  Only  a  few 
minutes  ago  he  told  me  something  astounding, 
something  for  you  also  to  hear,  dear  Jean.  It  is 
wonderful  news." 

Jean  le  Roi  interrupted. 

"What  I  want  to  hear  from  you,"  he  said,  in  a 
soft,  vicious  whisper,  "is  why,  when  they  let  me  out 
of  that  cursed  place,  you  were  not  there  with  money 
and  clothes  for  me,  as  I  ordered.  But  for  the  poor 
faithful  Annette,  whpm  I  did  not  desire  to  see,  I 


266  THE  MISSIONER 

might  have  starved  on  the  day  of  my  release. 

Stop! "  he  held  up  his  hand  as  Johnson  was  on 

the  point  of  pouring  out  a  copious  explanation, 
''order  me  brandy  first.  Tell  them  to  bring  me  the 
bottle.  Do  not  speak  till  I  have  drunk." 

They  called  a  waiter  and  gave  the  order.  They 
waited  in  an  uneasy  silence  until  it  arrived.  Jean 
le  Roi  drank  at  first  sparingly,  but  his  eyes  rested 
lovingly  upon  the  bottle. 

"Now  speak,"  he  commanded. 

Johnson  told  his  story  with  appropriate  gestures. 

"After  it  was  all  over,"  he  began  rapidly,  "and 
one  saw  that  a  rescue  was  impossible,  I  followed 
madame!  It  was  a  moment  of  fury,  I  thought. 
She  will  repent,  she  will  pay  for  lawyers  for  his 
defence.  So  I  hung  about  her  hotel,  only  to  find 
that  she  had  left,  stolen  away.  As  you  know,  she 
did  not  appear  at  the  trial!  It  was  a  bargain  with 
the  police  that  they  should  not  call  her  if  she  be- 
trayed you!  She  escaped  me,  Jean,  and  as  you 
know,  I  had  no  money.  All,  every  penny  had  been 
spent  on  your  clothes  and  your  horse  and  carriage, 
to  make  you  a  gentleman." 

Jean  le  Roi  extended  his  hands.  "Money  well 
spent  indeed !  Let  the  old  man  continue ! " 

"She  escaped  me,  Jean,  and  it  was  many  months 
before  I  found  a  clue  on  an  old  label  —  just  the  words 
'  Thorpe,  England.'  So  I  wrote  there,  and  the  letter 
did  not  come  back  as  the  others.  I  waited  a  little 
time  and  I  wrote  again,  this  time  to  receive  an 
answer!  It  was  a  stern,  angry  letter  from  a  man 
who  called  himself  her  father,  and  signed  himself 
Stephen  Hurd.  He  was  what  is  called  here  an 


JEAN  LE  ROI  267 

estate  agent,  and  he  had  not  very  much  money. 
He  would  not  send  one  pound.  He  said  that  the 
marriage  was  illegal,  and  if  one  came  to  England 
he  threatened  the  law!  I  wrote  again  —  humbly, 
piteously.  I  spoke  of  your  hardships.  I  told  how 
all  the  time  you  raved  of  your  dear  wife,  how  you 
repented  your  madness  —  how  it  was  for  love  of 
her  only  that  you  had  committed  such  a  crime! 
There  came  no  answer.  I  forwarded  the  letters 
which  you  had  written  to  her  —  I  begged,  oh!  how  I 
begged  for  just  a  little  money  for  the  small  luxuries, 
the  good  wine,  the  tobacco,  the  newspapers.  They 
sent  nothing!" 

Jean  le  Roi  drew  in  his  breath  with  a  gasp. 

"Oh!"   he  muttered.     "So  they  sent  nothing!"' 

"Not  one  sou,  Jean  —  not  one  sou!  And  all  the 
while  the  time  of  your  release  was  drawing  near. 
What  could  I  do !  Well,  I  raised  the  money.  How 
I  will  not  tell  you,  my  boy,  but  I  went  on  a  fruit 
boat  from  Havre  to  Southampton,  and  from  there 
down  to  Thorpe.  I  saw  the  old  man  Stephen  Kurd., 
It  was  on  a  Sunday  night  that  I  arrived,  and  I 
found  him  alone.  He  was  as  hard,  Jean,  as  his 
letters.  When  I  pressed  him  he  ordered  me  out 
of  the  house.  I  would  not  go.  I  said  that  I 
would  see  my  daughter-in-law.  I  would  remain 
until  I  saw  her,  I  said,  even.if  I  slept  under  a  hedge. 
Again  he  ordered  me  out  of  the  house.  I  was 
firm;  I  refused.  Then  he  struck  me,  there  was 
a  quarrel,  and  he  fell.  I  thought  at  first  that  he 
was  unconscious,  but  when  I  examined  him  —  he 
was  dead." 

Johnson  finished  his  speech  in  a  stealthy  whisper, 


268  THE  MISSIONER 

leaning  half  way  across  the  table.  Jean  le  Roi 
poured  himself  out  more  brandy,  but  he  was  un- 
moved. 

"The  old  trick,  I  suppose,"  he  remarked  care- 
lessly, making  a  swift  movement  with  his  hand. 

"No!  no!"  Johnson  declared  earnestly.  "I  used 
no  weapon!  It  was  an  accident,  a  pure  accident. 
Remember  that  this  is  his  son.  He  would  not  be 
here  if  it  was  not  quite  certain  that  it  was  accident 
—  and  accident  alone." 

Jean  le  Roi  lifted  his  head  and  gazed  curiously  at 
'Stephen  Hurd. 

"So  you,"  he  murmured,  "are  my  brother-in- 
law?" 

Johnson  leaned  once  more  across  the  table. 

"It  is  where  you,  where  we  all  have  been  de- 
ceived," he  said  impressively.  "Listen.  She  was 
never  the  daughter  of  Stephen  Hurd  at  all.  It  was 
a  schoolgirl's  freak  to  take  that  name,  when  she 
was  eluding  her  chaperon  and  amusing  herself  in 
Paris.  Stephen  Hurd  was  her  servant." 

"And  she?"  Jean  le  Roi  asked  softly. 

Johnson  spread  out  his  yellow-stained  fingers. 
His  voice  trembled,  his  eyes  shone.  It  was  like 
speakirg  of  something  holy. 

"She  is  a  great  lady,"   he  said.     "She  goes  to 

Court,   she  has  houses,   and   horses  and   carriages, 

troops  of  servants,  a  yacht,  motor-cars.     She  is  rich 

-  fabulously  rich,  Jean.     She  has  —  listen  —  forty 

thousand  pounds,  livres  mind,  a  year." 

"  More  than  that,"  Hurd  muttered. 

"More  than  that,"  Johnson  repeated. 

Jean  le  Roi  was  no  longer  unmoved.     He  drew  a 


JEAN  LE  ROI  269 

long  breath  and  his  teeth  seemed  to  come  together 
with  a  click. 

"There  is  no  mistake?"  he  asked  softly.  "An 
income  of  forty  thousand  pounds?" 

"There  is  no  mistake,"  Stephen  Kurd  assured 
him.  "I  will  answer  for  that." 

Jean  le  Roi's  face  was  white  and  vicious.  Yet 
for  a  time  he  said  nothing  and  his  two  companions 
watched  him  anxiously.  There  was  something 
uncanny  about  his  silence. 

"It  is  a  great  deal  of  money,"  he  said  at  last. 
"Often  in  prison  I  was  hungry,  I  had  no  cigarettes. 
I  was  forced  to  drink  water.  A  great  deal  of  money ! 
And  she  is  my  wife!  Half  of  what  she  has  belongs 
to  me!  That  is  the  law,  eh?" 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  Stephen  Hurd  said, 
"but  she  has  certainly  treated  you  very  badly." 

Jean  le  Roi  struck  the  table  with  his  fist,  not 
violently,  and  yet  somehow  with  a  force  which  made 
itself  felt. 

"It  is  over  —  that!"  he  said.  "I  am  a  man  who 
knows  when  he  has  been  ill-treated;  who  knows, 
too,  what  it  is  that  a  wife  owes  to  her  husband. 
Tell  me  where  it  is  that  she  lives,  old  man.  Write 
it  down." 

Johnson  drew  from  his  pocket  a  stump  of  pencil 
and  the  back  of  an  envelope.  He  wrote  slowly  and 
with  care.  Jean  le  Roi  extended  the  palm  of  his 
hand  to  Stephen  Hurd. 

"He  will  warn  madame,  perhaps,"  he  suggested. 
"Why  does  he  sit  here  with  us,  this  young  man?  Is 
it  that  he,  too,  wants  money?" 

"No!  no!  my  son,"  Johnson  intervened  hastily. 


270  THE  MISSIONER 

"Madame  treated  him   badly.     He  would  not   be 
sorry  to  see  her  humiliated." 

Jean  le  Roi  smiled. 

"It  shall  be  done,"  he  promised.  "But  from  one 
of  you  I  must  have  money.  I  cannot  present  myself 
before  my  wife  so  altered.  No  one  would  believe 
my  story." 

"How  much  do  you  want? "  Kurd  asked  uneasily. 

"Twenty  pounds  English,"  Jean  le  Roi  answered. 
"I  cannot  resume  my  appearance  as  a  gentleman 
on  less." 

Kurd  took  out  some  notes. 

"I  will  lend  you  that,"  he  said  slowly. 

Jean  le  Roi's  long  fingers  took  firm  hold  of  the 
notes.  He  buttoned  them  up  in  his  pocket,  slapped 
the  place  where  they  were,  and  poured  out  more 
brandy. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "I  am  prepared.  Madame  shall 
discover  what  it  means  to  deceive  her  fond  husband ! " 

Kurd  moved  in  his  seat  uneasily.  There  was 
something  ominous  in  the  villainous  curve  of  the 
man's  lips  —  in  the  utter  absence  of  any  direct 
threats.  What  was  it  that  was  passing  in  his  mind? 

"You  are  not  thinking  of  any  violence?"  he 
asked.  "Remember  she  is  a  proud  woman,  and  you 
cannot  punish  her  more  than  by  simply  appearing 
and  declaring  yourself." 

Jean  le  Roi  smiled. 

"We  shall  see,"  he  declared. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  KING  OF  THE  APACHES 

WILHELMINA  was  resting  —  and  looked  in 
need  of  it.  All  the  delicate  colours  and 
fluttering  ribbons  of  her  Doucet  dressing-jacket 
could  not  hide  the  pallor  of  her  cheeks,  or  the  hollows 
under  her  eyes.  Macheson,  who  came  in  sternly 
enough,  felt  himself  moved  to  a  troublous  pity. 
Nothing  seemed  left  of  the  great  lady  —  or  the 
"poseuse"! 

"You  are  kind,"  she  murmured,  "to  come  so  soon. 
Sit  down,  please!" 

"Is  there  any  trouble?"  he  asked.  "You  look 
Worried." 

She  laughed  unnaturally. 

"No  wonder,"  she  answered.  "For  five  years  I 
have  been  living  more  or  less  on  the  brink  of  a 
volcano.  From  what  I  have  heard,  I  fancy  that  an 
eruption  is  about  due." 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  he  asked. 

She  passed  him  a  telegram.  It  was  from  Paris', 
and  it  was  signed  Gilbert  Deyes. 

"Jean  le  Roi  was  free  yesterday.  Left  immedi- 
ately for  England." 

Macheson  looked  up.     He  did  not  understand. 


272  THE  MISSIONER 

"And  who,"  he  asked,  "is  Jean  le  Roi?" 

She  looked  him  in  the  eyes. 

"My  husband,"  she  told  him  quietly.  "At  least 
that  is  what  I  suppose  the  law  would  say  that  he 
was." 

Macheson  had  been  prepared  for  something  sur- 
prising, but  not  for  this.  He  looked  at  her  incredu- 
lously. He  found  himself  aimlessly  repeating  her 
words. 

"Your  husband?" 

"I  was  married  five  years  ago  in  Paris,"  she  said 
in  a  dull,  emotionless  tone.  "No  one  over  here 
knows  about  it,  or  has  seen  him,  because  he  has 
been  in  prison  all  the  time.  It  was  I  who  sent  him 
there." 

"I  can't  believe  this,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone. 
"It  is  too  amazing." 

Then  a  light  broke  in  upon  him  and  he  began 
to  understand. 

"He  is  in  England  now,"  she  said,  "and  I  am 
afraid." 

"Jean  le  Roi?"  he  muttered. 

"King  of  the  Apaches,"  she  answered  bitterly. 
"  'The  greatest  rogue  in  Paris/  they  said,  when 
they  sentenced  him." 

"Sentenced  him!"  he  repeated,  bewildered. 

"He  has  been  in  prison  since  the  day  we  were 
married,"  she  continued.  "It  was  I  who  sent  him 
there." 

He  bowed  his  head.  He  felt  that  it  was  not 
right  to  look  at  her.  An  infinite  wave  of  tender- 
ness swept  through  his  whole  being.  He  was 
ashamed  of  his  past  thoughts  of  her,  of  his  hasty 


THE  KING  OF  THE  APACHES         273 

judgments.  All  the  time  she  had  been  carrying 
this  in  her  bosom.  Her  very  pride  seemed  to  him 
now  magnificent.  He  felt  suddenly  like  a  querulous 
child. 

"What  can  I  do  to  help  you?"  he  asked  softly. 

She  came  a  little  nearer  to  him. 

"I  am  afraid,"  she  said,  dropping  her  voice 
almost  to  a  whisper.  "Ever  since  I  heard  the  story 
of  his  life,  as  it  was  told  in  court,  I  have  been  afraid. 
When  he  was  taken,  he  swore  to  be  revenged.  For 
the  last  twenty-four  hours  I  have  felt  somehow  that 
he  was  near!  Read  this!" 

She  passed  him  a  letter.  The  notepaper  was 
thick  and  expensive,  and  headed  by  a  small  coro- 
net. 


"My  dearest  wife,"  it  began.  "At  last 
miserable  separation  comes  to  an  end!  I  am  here 
in  London,  on  my  way  to  you!  Prepare  to  throw 
yourself  into  my  arms.  How  much  too  long  has 
our  happiness  been  deferred! 

"I  should  have  been  with  you  before,  dear 
Wilhelmina,  but  for  more  sordid  considerations.  I 
need  money.  I  need  money  very  badly.  Send  me, 
please,  a  thousand  pounds  to-morrow  between 
three  and  four  —  or  shall  I  come  and  fetch  it,  and 
you? 

"As  you  will. 

"Your  devoted  husband, 

"Jean." 

•    He  gave  her  back  the  letter  gravely. 
"What  was  your  answer?"  he  asked. 


274  THE  MISSIONER 

"I  sent  nothing,"  she  declared.  "I  did  not 
reply.  But  I  am  afraid  —  horribly  afraid !  He  is 
a  terrible  man.  If  we  were  alone,  he  would  kill 
me  as  you  or  I  would  a  fly.  If  only  they  could 
have  proved  the  things  at  the  trial  which  were 
known  to  be  true,  he  would  never  have  seen  the 
daylight  again.  But  even  the  witnesses  were 
terrified.  They  dared  not  give  evidence  against 
him." 

"Will  you  tell  me,"  Macheson  asked,  "how  it  all 
came  about?  Not  unless  you  like,"  he  added, 
after  a  moment's  hesitation.  "Not  if  it  is  painful 
to  you." 

She  sat  down  upon  the  couch,  curling  herself  up 
at  the  further  end  of  it,  and  building  up  the  pillows 
at  the  further  end  to  support  her  head.  Against 
the  soft  green  silk,  her  face  was  like  the  face  of  a 
tired  child.  Something  seemed  to  have  gone  out 
of  her.  She  was  no  longer  playing  a  part  —  not 
even  to  him  —  not  even  to  herself.  There  was 
nothing  left  of  the  woman  of  the  world.  It  was 
the  child  who  told  him  her  story. 

"You  must  listen,"  she  said,  "and  you  may 
laugh  at  me  if  you  like,  but  you  must  not  be 
angry.  My  story  is  the  story  of  a  fool!  Sit 
down,  please  —  at  the  end  of  the  couch  if  you  don't 
mind!  I  like  to  have  you  between  me  and  the 
door." 

He  obeyed  her  in  silence,  and  she  continued.  She 
spoke  like  a  child  repeating  her  lesson.  She  held 
a  crumpled-up  lace  handkerchief  in  her  hand,  and 
her  eyes,  large  and  intent,  never  left  his. 

"This  is  the  story  of  a  girl,"  she  said,  "an  orphan 


THE  KING  OF  THE  APACHES         275 

who  went  abroad  with  a  chaperon  to  travel  in 
Europe  and  perfect  her  French.  In  Paris  the 
chaperon  fell  ill,  the  girl  hired  a  guide  recommended 
by  the  hotel,  to  show  her  the  sights. 

"They  saw  all  that  the  tourist  sees,  and  the 
chaperon  was  still  ill.  The  girl  thought  that  she 
would  like  to  see  something  of  the  Parisians  them- 
selves; she  was  tired  of  Cook's  English  people  and 
Americans.  So  she  gave  the  guide  money  to  buy 
himself  clothes,  and  bade  him  take  her  to  the 
restaurants  and  places  where  the  world  of  Paris 
assembled.  It  was  known  at  the  hotel,  perhaps 
through  the  servants,  that  the  girl  was  rich.  The 
guide  heard  it  and  told  some  one  else.  Between 
them  they  concocted  a  plot.  The  girl  was  to  be 
the  victim.  She  was  only  eighteen. 

"One  day  they  were  lunching  at  the  Cafe  de 
Paris  —  the  guide  and  the  girl  —  when  a  young  man 
entered.  He  was  exceedingly  handsome,  and  very 
wonderfully  turned  out  after  the  fashion  of  the 
French  dandy.  The  guide,  as  the  young  man 
passed,  rose  up  and  bowed  respectfully.  The  young 
man  nodded  carelessly.  Then  he  saw  the  girl,  and 
he  looked  at  her  as  no  man  had  ever  looked  before. 
And  the  girl  ought  to  have  been  angry,  but  wasn't. 

"She  asked  the  guide  who  the  young  man  was. 
He  told  her  that  it  was  the  Duke  of  Languerois,  head 
of  one  of  the  oldest  families  in  France.  His  father 
and  grandfather,  and  for  a  time  he  himself,  had  been 
in  their  service!  The  girl  looked  across  at  the  young 
man  with  interest,  and  the  young  man  returned  her 
gaze.  That  was  what  he  was  there  for. 

"As  they  left  the  restaurant  her  guide  fell  behind 


276  THE  MISSIONER 

for  a  moment,  and  when  she  looked  round  she  saw 
him  talking  to  the  young  man.  Of  course  she  wanted 
to  know  what  they  had  been  saying,  and  with  much 
apparent  reluctance  the  guide  told  her.  The  young 
man  had  been  inquiring  about  mademoiselle,  where 
they  spent  their  time,  how  he  could  meet  them.  Of 
course  he  had  told  nothing.  But  the  young  man 
was  very  persistent  and  very  much  in  earnest!  She 
encouraged  the  guide  to  talk  about  him,  and  she 
believed  what  she  was  told.  He  was  rich,  noble, 
adored  in  French  society,  and  he  was  in  love  with 
mademoiselle.  She  was  very  soon  given  to  under- 
stand this. 

"For  several  days  the  young  man  was  always  in 
evidence.  He  was  perfectly  respectful,  he  never 
attempted  to  address  her.  It  was  all  most  cunningly 
planned.  Then  one  evening,  when  she  was  driving 
with  her  guide  through  a  narrow  street,  a  man 
sprang  suddenly  upon  the  step  of  her  carriage  and 
snatched  at  her  jewels.  Another  on  the  other  side 
had  passed  his  arm  round  the  guide's  neck  and 
almost  throttled  him,  and  a  third  was  struggling 
with  the  coachman.  It  was  one  of  those  lightning- 
like  attacks  by  Apaches,  which  were  common  enough 
then  —  at  least  it  seemed  like  one.  The  girl 
screamed,  and,  of  course,  the  young  man,  who  had 
been  following  in  another  voiture,  appeared.  One 
of  the  thieves  he  threw  on  to  the  pavement,  the 
others  fled.  And  the  young  man  was  a  hero!  It 
Was  well  arranged!" 

Her  voice  broke  for  a  moment,  and  Macheson 
moved  uneasily  upon  the  sofa.  If  he  could  he  would 
have  stopped  her.  He  could  guess  as  much  of  the 


THE  KING  OF  THE  APACHES         277 

miserable  story  as  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  know! 
But  she  ignored  his  threatened  interruption.  She 
was  determined,  having  kept  her  secret  for  so  long, 
that  he  should  know  now  the  whole  truth. 

"After  that,  things  moved  rapidly.  The  girl  was 
as  near  her  own  mistress  as  a  child  of  her  age  could 
be.  She  was  lonely  and  the  young  man  proved  a 
delightful  companion.  He  had  many  attractive 
gifts,  and  he  knew  how  to  make  use  of  them.  All 
the  time  he  made  love  to  her.  For  a  time  she 
resisted,  but  she  had  very  little  chance.  She  was 
just  at  the  age  when  all  girls  are  more  or  less  fools. 
In  the  end  she  consented  to  a  secret  marriage. 
Afterwards  he  was  to  take  her  to  his  family.  But 
that  time  never  came. 

"They  were  married  at  eleven  o'clock  one  morn- 
ing, and  went  afterwards  to  a  cafe  for  dejeuner. 
The  young  man  that  day  was  ill  at  ease  and  nervous. 
He  kept  looking  about  him  as  though  he  was  afraid 
of  being  followed.  He  spoke  vaguely  of  danger 
from  the  anger  of  his  noble  relations.  They  were 
scarcely  seated  at  luncheon  before  a  man  came 
quietly  into  the  place  and  whispered  a  few  words 
in  his  ear.  Whatever  those  few  words  were,  the 
young  man  went  suddenly  pale  and  called  for  his 
hat,  and  stick.  He  wrote  an  address  on  a  piece  of 
paper  and  gave  it  to  the  girl.  He  begged  her  to 
follow  him  in  an  hour  —  he  would  introduce  her  then 
to  his  friends.  And  he  left  her  alone.  The  girl 
was  troubled  and  uneasy.  He  had  gone  off  without 
even  paying  for  the  luncheon.  He  had  the  air  of  a 
desperate  man.  She  began  to  realize  what  she 
had  done. 


278  THE  MISSIONER 

"  She  was  preparing  to  depart  when  an  English- 
man, who  had  been  lunching  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room,  came  over,  and,  with  a  word  of  apology, 
sat  down  by  her  side.  He  saw  that  she  was  young, 
and  a  fellow-countryman,  and  he  told  her  very 
gravely  that  he  was  sure  she  could  not  be  aware  of 
the  character  of  the  man  with  whom  she  had  been 
lunching.  Her  eyes  grew  wide  open  with  horror. 
The  man,  he  said,  was  the  illegitimate  son  of  a 
French  nobleman,  and  his  mother  had  been  married 
to  a  guide  —  her  guide !  He  had  perhaps  the  worst 
character  of  any  man  in  Paris.  He  had  been  tried 
for  murder,  imprisoned  for  forgery,  and  he  was 
now  suspected  of  being  the  leader  of  a  band  of 
desperate  criminals  who  were  dreaded  all  over 
Paris.  This  and  other  things  he  told  her  of  the 
man  whom  she  had  just  married.  The  girl  listened 
as  though  turned  to  stone,  with  the  piece  of  paper 
which  he  had  given  her  crumpled  up  in  her  hands. 
Then  the  police  came.  They  asked  her  questions. 
She  pretended  at  first  to  know  nothing.  At  last 
she  addressed  the  commissionary.  If  she  gave  him 
the  address  where  this  young  man  could  be  found, 
he  and  all  his  friends,  might  she  depart  without 
mention  being  made  of  her,  or  her  name  appearing 
in  any  way?  The  commissionary  agreed,  and  she 
gave  him  the  piece  of  paper.  The  Englishman  - 
it  was  Gilbert  Deyes  —  took  her  back  to  her  hotel, 
and  the  police  captured  Jean  le  Roi  and  the  whole 
band  of  his  associates.  The  girl  returned  to  England 
that  night.  Jean  le  Roi  was  sentenced  to  six  years' 
penal  servitude.  His  time  was  up  last  week." 

"What  a  diabolical  plot!"  Macheson  exclaimed. 


THE  KING  OF  THE  APACHES         279 

"But  the  marriage!  It  could  have  been  annulled, 
surely?" 

" Perhaps/'  she  answered,  "but  I  did  not  dare 
to  face  the  publicity.  I  felt  that  I  should  never 
be  able  to  look  any  one  in  the  face  again.  I  had 
given  my  name  to  the  guide  Johnson  as  Clara  Hirrd. 
I  hoped  that  they  might  never  find  me." 

"They  cannot  do  you  any  harm,"  Macheson 
declared.  "Let  me  go  with  you  to  the  lawyers. 
They  will  see  that  you  are  not  molested." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"It  is  not  so  easy,"  she  said.  "The  marriage 
was  quite  legal.  To  have  it  annulled  I  should  have 
to  enter  a  suit.  The  whole  story  would  come  out. 
I  could  never  live  in  England  afterwards." 

"But  you  don't  mean,"  he  protested,  "to  remain 
bound  to  this  blackguard  all  your  life!" 

"How  can  I  free  myself,"  she  asked,  "except  by 
making  myself  the  laughing-stock  of  the  country?" 

"Why  did  you  send  forme?"  he  asked  bluntly. 

"To  ask  for  your  advice — and  to  protect  me," 
she  added,  with  a  shiver.  "  It  is  not  only  money  that 
Jean  le  Roi  wants!  It  is  vengeance  because  I 
betrayed  him." 

"As  for  that,  I  won't  leave  you  except  when  you 
send  me  away,"  he  declared.  "And  my  advice!  If 
you  want  that,  the  right  thing  to  me  seems  simple 
enough.  Go  at  once  to  your  lawyers.  They  will 
tell  you  the  proper  course.  At  the  worst,  the  man 
could  be  bought  off  for  the  present." 

She  raised  her  head. 

"I  will  not  give  him  one  penny,"  she  declared. 
"I  have  always  sworn  that." 


280  THE  MISSIONER 

"But  I'm  afraid  if  you  won't  try  to  divorce  him 
that  he  can  claim  some,"  Macheson  said. 

"Then  he  must  come  and  take  it  by  force,"  she 
declared. 

There  was  silence  between  them.  Then  she  rose 
to  her  feet  and  came  and  stood  before  him. 

"I  ought  to  have  told  you  all  this  long  ago,"  she 
said  simply.  "To-day  I  felt  that  I  must  tell  you 
without  another  hour's  delay.  Now  that  you  know, 
I  am  not  so  terrified.  But  you  must  promise  to 
come  and  see  me  every  day  while  that  brute  remains 
in  London." 

"Yes!  I  promise  that,"  he  answered,  also  rising 
to  his  feet. 

They  heard  her  maid  moving  about  in  the  bed- 
room. 

"Hortense  is  reminding  me  that  I  must  dress  for 
dinner,"  she  remarked  with  a  faint  smile.  "One 
must  dine,  you  know,  even  in  the  midst  of 
tragedies." 

Macheson  prepared  to  take  his  departure. 

"I  shall  come  to-morrow,"  he  said,  "if  you  do 
not  send  for  me  before." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

BEHIND  THE  PALM  TREES 

LADY  PEGGY  was  fussing  round  the  drawing- 
room,  talking  to  all  her  guests  at  once. 
"I  haven't  the  least  idea  who  takes  anybody  in," 
she  declared.  "  James  said  he'd  see  to  that,  so  you 
might  just  as  well  put  your  hand  in  a  lucky-bag. 
And  I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  you'll  get  any  dinner. 
I've  got  a  new  chef  —  drives  up  in  a  high  dog-cart 
with  such  a  sweet  little  groom.  He  may  be  all 
right.  Jules,  the  maitre  d' hotel  at  Claridge's,  got 
him  for  me,  and,  Wilhelmina,  sooner  than  come 
out  like  a  ghost,  I'd  really  take  lessons  in  the  use 
of  the  rouge-pot.  My  new  maid's  a  perfect  treasure 
at  it.  No  one  can  ever  tell  whether  my  colour's 
natural  or  not.  I  don't  mind  telling  you  people 
it  generally  isn't.  But  anyhow,  it  isn't  daubed 
on  like  Lady  Sydney's  —  makes  her  look  for  all 
the  world  like  one  of  'ces  dames/  doesn't  it?  I'm 
sure  I'd  be  afraid  to  be  seen  speaking  to  her  if  I 
were  a  man.  Gilbert,"  she  broke  off,  addressing 
Deyes,  who  was  just  being  ushered  in,  "how  dare 
you  come  to  dinner  without  being  asked?  I'm  sure 
I  have  not  asked  you.  Don't  say  I  did,  now.  You 
refused  me  eight  times  running,  and  I  crossed  you 
off  my  list." 


282  THE  MISSIONER 

Deyes  held  out  a  card  as  he  bowed  over  his 
hostess's  fingers. 

"My  dear  lady,"  he  said,  "here  is  the  proof  that 
I  am  not  an  intruder.  I  am  down  to  take  in  our 
hostess  of  Thorpe!" 

"You  have  bribed  James,"  she  declared.  "I 
hope  it  cost  you  a  great  deal  of  money.  I  will  not 
believe  that  I  asked  you.  However,  since  you  are 
here,  go  and  tell  Wilhelmina  some  of  your  stories. 
I  hate  pale  cheeks,  and  Wilhelmina  blushes  easily. 
No  use  looking  at  the  clock,  Duke.  Dinner  will  be 
at  least  half  an  hour  late,  I'm  sure.  These  foreign 
chefs  have  no  idea  of  punctuality.  What's  that? 
Dinner  served!  Two  minutes  before  time.  Well, 
we're  all  here,  aren't  we?  I  knew  it  would  be 
either  too  early  or  too  late.  Duke,  you  will  have 
to  take  me  in.  By  the  time  we  get  there  the  soup 
will  probably  be  cold.  You'd  better  pray  that  we're 
starting  with  caviare  and  oysters!  Such  a  slow 
crowd,  aren't  they  —  and  such  chatterboxes!  I 
wish  they'd  move  on  a  little  faster  and  talk  a  little 
less.  No!  Only  thirty.  Nice  sociable  number,  I  call 
it,  for  a  round  table.  I  asked  Victor  Macheson,  the 
man  who's  so  rude  to  us  all  every  Thursday  after- 
noon for  a  guinea  a  time  —  I  don't  know  why  we  pay 
it  to  be  abused,  —  but  he  wouldn't  come.  I  met  him 
before  he  developed,  and  I  don't  think  he  liked  me." 

"You  got  my  telegram?"  Deyes  asked,  as  he 
unfolded  his  napkin. 

Wilhelmina  nodded. 

"Yes!"  she  answered.  "It  was  very  good  of 
you  to  warn  me.  I  have  had  —  a  letter  already. 
The  campaign  has  begun." 


BEHIND  THE  PALM  TREES  283 

Deyes  nodded. 

"Chosen  your  weapons  yet?"  he  asked. 

"I  haven't  much  choice,  have  I?"  she  answered, 
a  little  bitterly.  "I  fight,  of  course." 

Deyes  was  carefully  scanning  the  menu  through 
his  horn-rimmed  eyeglass. 

"Becassine  a  la  Broche,"  he  murmured.  "I 
must  remember  that." 

Then  he  turned  in  his  chair  and  looked  at  Wilhel- 
mina. 

"You  are  worrying,"  he  declared  abruptly. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  alabaster  white, 
rising  from  the  unrelieved  black  of  her  velvet 
gown. 

"My  maid's  fault,"  she  added.  "I  ought  to 
have  worn  white.  Of  course  I'm  worrying.  I 
don't  care  about  carrying  the  signs  of  it  about  with 
me  though.  I  think  I  shall  have  to  adopt  Peggy's 
advice,  and  go  to  the  rouge-pot." 

"Perhaps,"  he  said  deliberately,  "it  will  not  be 
necessary." 

She  looked  up  at  him  quickly.  His  words  sounded 
encouraging. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  a  way  may  be  found  to  induce  a 
certain  gentleman  to  return  to  his  native  country 
and  stay  there,"  Deyes  said  smoothly.  "After 
dinner  we  are  going  to  have  some  talk.  Please 
oblige  me  now  by  abandoning  the  discussion  and 
eating  something.  Ah!  that  champagne  will  do 
you  good." 

Her  neighbour  on  the  other  side  addressed  her, 
and  Wilhelmina  was  conscious  of  a  sudden  lighten- 


284  THE  MISSIONER 

ing  of  the  load  upon  her  heart.  Like  every  one 
else,  she  had  confidence  in  this  tall,  self-contained 
man  whose  life  was  somewhat  of  a  mystery  even  to 
his  friends,  and  who  had  about  him  that  suggestion 
of  power  which  reticence  nearly  always  brings.  He 
was  going  to  help  her.  She  pushed  all  those  miser- 
able thoughts  away  from  her.  She  became  herself 
again. 

"Let  no  one  imagine,"  Lady  Peggy  said,  care- 
fully knocking  the  end  of  a  cigarette  upon  the  table, 
"that  I  am  going  to  try  to  catch  the  eyes  of  all  you 
women,  and  go  sailing  away  with  my  nose  in  the 
air  to  look  at  engravings  in  the  drawing-room.  You 
can  just  get  up  and  go  when  you  like,  any  or  all  of 
you.  There  are  bridge  tables  laid  out  for  you  in 
the  library,  music  and  a  hopping  girl  —  I  don't  call 
it  dancing  —  in  the  drawing-room,  a  pool  in  the 
billiard-room,  or  flirtation  in  the  winter-garden. 
Coffee  and  liqueurs  will  follow  you  wherever  you  go. 
Take  your  choice,  good  people.  For  myself,  the 
Duke  is  telling  me  stories  of  Cairo.  J'y  suis,  j'y  reste. 
I'm  only  thankful  no  one  else  can  hear  them!" 

The  party  at  the  great  round  table  dispersed 
slowly  by  two  and  threes.  Wilhelmina  and  Deyes 
strolled  into  the  winter-garden.  Deyes  lit  a  cigarette 
and  stood  with  his  hands  behind  him.  Wilhelmina 
was  leaning  against  the  back  of  a  chair.  She  was 
too  excited  to  sit  down. 

"Please!"  she  begged. 

Deyes  threw  his  cigarette  away.  His  face  seemed 
to  harden  and  soften  at  the  same  time.  His  mouth 
was  suddenly  firm,  but  his  eyes  glowed.  All  the  bore- 
dom was  gone  from  his  manner  and  expression. 


BEHIND  THE  PALM  TREES  285 

"  Wilhelmina,"  he  said,  "I  have  wanted  to  marry 
you  ever  since  I  saw  you  in  the  Cafe"  de  Paris  with 
that  atrocious  blackguard  who  has  caused  you  so 
much  suffering.  You  may  remember  that  I  have 
hinted  as  much  to  you  before!" 

She  was  startled  —  visibly  disturbed. 

"You  know  very  well,"  she  said,  "that  you  are 
speaking  of  impossible  things!" 

"Things  that  were  impossible,  Wilhelmina,"  he 
said.  "Suppose  I  take  Jean  le  Roi  off  your  hands? 
Suppose  I  promise  to  send  him  back  to  his  own 
country  like  a  rat  to  his  hole?  Suppose  I  promise 
that  your  marriage  shall  be  annulled  without  a  line 
in  the  newspapers,  without  a  single  vestige  of 
publicity?" 

"You  cannot  do  it,"  she  murmured  eagerly. 

"You  want  your  freedom,  then?"  he  asked. 

"Yes!  I  want  my  freedom,"  she  answered.  "I 
have  a  right  to  it,  haven't  I?" 

"And  I,"  he  said  slowly,  "want  you!" 

There  was  a  short  pause.  Through  the  palms  came 
the  faint  wailing  of  a  violin,  the  crash  of  pianoforte 
chords,  the  clear  soft  notes  of  a  singer.  Wilhelmina 
felt  her  eyes  fill  with  tears.  She  was  overwrought, 
and  there  were  new  things,  things  that  were  strange 
to  her,  in  the  worn,  lined  face  of  the  man  who  was 
bending  towards  her. 

"Wilhelmina,"  he  said  softly,  "life,  our  life,  does 
its  best  to  strangle  the  emotions.  One  feels  that 
one  does  best  with  a  pulse  which  has  forgotten  how 
to  quicken,  and  a  heart  which  beats  to  the  will  of  its 
owner.  But  the  most  hardened  of  us  come  to  grief 


286  THE  MISSIONER 

sometimes.  I  am  afraid  that  I  have  come  —  very 
much  to  grief!" 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  said  quietly. 

He  drew  away  and  his  face  became  like  marble. 

"You  mean — that  it  isn't  any  use?"  he  asked 
hoarsely. 

She  looked  at  him,  and  he  did  not  press  for  words. 

"Is  it  — the  missioner?"  he  asked. 

Her  head  sank  a  little  lower,  but  still  she  did  not 
answer.  Gilbert  Deyes  drew  himself  upright.  He 
remembered  the  cigarette  which  had  burnt  itself 
out  between  his  fingers,  and  he  carefully  relit  it. 

"I  am  now,"  he  said,  blowing  a  cloud  of  blue 
smoke  into  the  heart  of  a  yellow  rose,  "confronted 
by  a  somewhat  hackneyed,  but  always  interesting 
problem.  Do  I  care  for  you  enough  —  or  too  little— 
or  too  much  —  to  continue  your  friend,  when  my 
aid  will  probably  ensure  the  loss  of  you  for  ever!  It 
is  not  a  problem  to  be  hurried  over,  this ! " 

"There  is  no  need  for  haste,"  she  answered.  "I 
know  you,  Gilbert,  better  than  you  know  yourself. 
I  am  very  sure  that  you  will  help  me  —  if  you  can." 

He  laughed  bitterly. 

"You  are  a  good  deal  surer  of  me  than  I  am  of 
myself,"  he  answered.  "Why  should  I  give  you  up 
to  a  boy  who  hasn't  learnt  yet  the  first  lesson  of 
life?" 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked.  "I  am  not  clear  that 
I  have  graduated." 

"You  can  see  it  blazoned  over  the  portals  as  you 
pass  through  the  gates,"  he  answered,  "  'Abandon 
all  enthusiasm,  ye  who  enter  here.'  The  pathways 
of  life  are  heaped  with  the  corpses  of  those  who  will 


BEHIND  THE  PALM  TREES  287 

not  understand.  Do  you  think  that  this  boy  will 
fare  better  than  the  rest,  with  his  preaching  and 
lectures  and  East  End  work?  It's  sheer  imperti- 
nence !  Man,  the  individual,  is  only  a  pawn  in  the 
game  of  life.  Why  should  he  imagine  that  he  can 
alter  the  things  that  are?" 

"Even  the  striving  to  alter  them,"  she  said,  "may 
tend  towards  betterment." 

"A  platitude,"  he  declared  —  "and  hopeless!" 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his. 

"Anyhow,"  she  said  softly,  "I  care  for  him." 

He  bowed  low. 

"Incomprehensible,"  he  murmured.  "Take  your 
freedom  and  marry  this  young  man  if  you  must. 
But  I  warn  you  that  you  will  be  miserable.  Apples 
and  green  figs  don't  grow  on  the  same  tree." 

He  drew  an  envelope  from  his  pocket  and  handed 
it  to  her. 

"Jean  le  Roi,"  he  said,  "was  married  to  Annette 
Hurier,  in  the  town  of  Chalons,  two  years  before  he 
posed  before  you  as  the  Duke  of  Languerois.  You 
will  find  Annette's  address  in  there.  It  took  me  a 
year  to  trace  this  out  —  a  wasted  year !  Bah !  you 
women  are  all  disappointments.  We  will  go  and 
play  bridge." 

Lady  Peggy  stared  at  Wilhelmina  when  they 
entered  the  library  a  few  minutes  later. 

"What  on  earth  have  you  been  doing  to  her, 
Gilbert?  "  she  demanded.  "  She's  a  changed  woman ! " 

"  Making  love  to  her ! "  Deyes  answered. 

Lady  Peggy  laughed. 

"If  I  believed  you,"  she  declared,  "I'd  give  up 
this  rubber  and  go  and  lose  myself  amongst  the 


288  THE  MISSIONER 

palms    with    you.     Come    and    cut    in  —  you    too, 
Wilhelmina." 

But  Wilhelmina  excused  herself.  She  drove  home- 
wards with  a  soft  smile  upon  her  lips,  and  the  dead 
weight  lifted  from  her  heart. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  ONLY   WAY 

IT  was  a  round  table,  too,  at  which  Macheson 
dined  that  night,  but  with  a  different  company. 
For  they  were  all  men  who  sat  there,  men  with 
earnest  faces  and  thoughtful  eyes.  The  graces  of 
evening  dress  and  society  talk  they  knew  nothing  of. 
They  were  the  friends  of  Macheson's  college  days,  the 
men  who  had  sworn  amongst  themselves  that,  how- 
ever they  might  live,  they  would  devote  the  greater 
part  of  their  life  to  their  fellow-creatures. 

They  were  smoking  pipes,  and  a  great  bowl  of 
tobacco  was  on  the  table.  Few  of  them  took  wine, 
but  Macheson  and  Holderness  were  drinking  whisky. 
Holderness,  their  senior,  was  usually  the  one  who 
started  their  informal  talk. 

"My  work's  been  easy  enough  all  the  time,"  he 
remarked,  leaning  forward.  "There  were  no  end 
of  labour-papers,  but  all  being  run  either  for  the 
trades'  unions,  or  some  special  industrial  branch. 
I  started  a  labour  magazine  —  Macheson  found  the 
money,  of  course  —  and  I'm  paying  my  way  now. 
I  don't  know  whether  the  thing  does  any  good. 
At  any  rate  it's  an  effort!  I've  been  hearing  about 
your  colony,  Franklin.  I  shall  want  an  article  on 
it  presently." 


290  THE  MISSIONER 

A  tall,  thin  young  man  removed  his  pipe  from 
his  mouth. 

"You  shall  have  it  as  soon  as  I  can  find  time," 
he  answered.  "  We're  going  strong,  but  really 
there's  very  little  credit  due  to  me.  It  was  Mache- 
son's  money  and  Macheson's  idea.  We've  got  an 
entire  village  now  near  Llandirog,  and  the  whole 
population  come  from  the  prisons.  Macheson  and 
I  used  to  attend  the  police-courts  ourselves,  hear 
all  the  cases,  and  form  our  own  conclusions  as  to 
the  prisoners.  If  we  thought  there  was  any  hope 
for  them,  we  made  a  note,  met  them  when  they 
came  out,  and  offered  them  a  job,  on  probation  - 
in  our  village.  We  have  to  leave  it  to  the  chaplains 
now  —  I  can't  spare  time  to  be  always  in  London. 
We've  two  woollen  mills,  a  saw-mill,  and  a  bakery, 
besides  all  the  shops,  and  nearly  a  thousand  acres 
of  well-farmed  land.  At  first  the  people  round  were 
terribly  shy  of  us,  but  that's  all  over  now.  Why, 
we  have  less  trouble  with  the  police  in  our  village 
than  any  for  miles  around.  We're  paying  our 
way,  too." 

"You've  done  thundering  well,  Franklin,"  Mache- 
son declared.  "I  remember  what  a  rough  time 
you  had  at  first.  Uphill  work,  wasn't  it?" 

"That's  what  makes  it  such  a  relief  to  have 
pulled  through,"  Franklin  declared,  re-lighting  his 
pipe.  "I  shouldn't  like  to  say  how  much  I  had  to 
draw  from  Macheson  before  we  turned  the  corner. 
Glad  to  say  we've  paid  a  bit  back  now,  though.  Tell 
us  about  your  idea,  Holroyd.  They  tell  me  it's 
working  well  in  some  of  the  large  cities." 


THE  ONLY  WAY  291 

"It's  simple  enough,"  Holroyd  answered,  smiling. 
"It  was  just  the  application  of  common  sense  to 
the  laws  of  charity.  Nearly  every  one's  charitable 
by  instinct  —  only  sometimes  it's  so  difficult  for  a 
busy  man  to  know  exactly  when  and  how  to  give.  I 
started  in  one  of  the  big  cities,  looking  up  prosperous 
middle-class  families.  I'd  try  to  induce  them,  in- 
stead of  just  writing  cheques  for  institutions  and 
making  things  for  bazaars,  to  take  a  personal  interest 
in  a  family  of  about  the  same  size  as  their  own  who 
were  in  a  bad  way.  When  they  promised,  all  I  had 
to  do  was  to  find  the  poor  family  and  bring  them 
together,  and  it  was  astonishing  how  much  the  one 
could  do  for  the  other  without  undue  effort.  There 
were  the  clothes,  of  course,  and  old  housekeeping 
things,  odd  bits  of  furniture,  food  from  the  kitchen,  a 
job  for  one  of  the  boys  in  the  garden,  a  day's  work  for 
one  of  the  girls  in  the  house.  I  tell  you  I  have  lists  of 
hundreds  of  poor  families,  who  feel  now  that  they 
have  some  one  to  fall  back  upon,  and  the  richer  half 
of  the  combination  take  a  tremendous  interest  in 
their  foster-family,  as  some  of  them  call  it.  Some- 
times there  is  trouble,  but  the  world  is  governed  by 
majorities,  and  in  the  majority  of  cases  the  thing 
has  turned  out  excellently." 

"There's  the  essence  of  charity  in  the  idea  —  the 
personal  note,"  Macheson  remarked.  "How's  the 
Canadian  farm  going,  Finlaj^son?" 

"We're  paying  our  way,"  Finlayson  answered, 
"and  you  should  see  our  boys.  They  come  out  thin 
and  white  —  all  skin  and  bones.  You  wouldn't 
recognize  one  of  them  in  six  months!  They're  good 
workers,  too.  We've  nine  hundred  altogether  in  the 


292  THE  MISSIONER 

North-West,  and  we  want  more.  I'm  hoping  to 
take  a  hundred  back  with  me." 

"It's  a  grand  country,"  Macheson  said.  "I'm 
glad  it's  part  of  the  Empire,  Finlayson,  or  I  should 
grudge  you  those  boys.  We  can't  spare  too  many. 
Hinton,  your  work  speaks  for  itself." 

Hinton,  the  only  one  in  clerical  dress,  smiled  a 
little  wearily. 

"Sometimes,"  he  said,  "I  wish  it  would  speak  a 
little  louder.  East  End  work  is  all  the  same.  One 
feels  ashamed  of  preaching  religion  to  a  starving 
people." 

Macheson  nodded  his  sympathy. 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  he  said.  "It  drove  me 
from  the  East  to  the  West.  We  should  preach  at  the 
one  and  feed  the  other!  .  .  .  Of  course,  I  personally 
have  always  been  handicapped.  I  haven't  been  able 
to  subscribe  to  any  of  the  established  churches. 
But  I  do  believe  in  the  laws  of  retribution,  whether 
you  call  them  human  or  Divine.  One's  moral 
delinquencies  pay  one  out  just  as  bodily  excesses 
do.  Always  one's  debts  are  to  be  paid,  and  it's  a 
terrible  burden  the  drones  must  carry.  After  all, 
I've  come  to  the  conclusion  that  there's  heaps  of 
sound  moral  teaching  to  be  drummed  into  our 
fellow-creatures  without  the  necessity  of  being 
orthodox!" 

"  You  speak  lightly  of  your  own  work,  Macheson," 
Franklin  said,  "but  there  is  one  thing  we  must 
none  of  us  forget.  Our  schools,  our  farms,  our 
colonies,  all  our  attempts,  indeed,  owe  their  very 
being  to  your  open  purse  - 

Macheson  held  out  his  hand. 


THE  ONLY  WAY  293 

"  Franklin,"  he  said,  "  I  want  to  tell  you  some- 
thing which  I  think  none  of  you  know.  I  want 
to  tell  you  where  most  of  my  money  came  from, 
and  you'll  understand  then  why  I've  been  so  anxious 
to  get  rid  of  it  —  or  a  part  of  it  —  in  this  way.  Did 
you  ever  hear  of  Ferguson  Davis,  the  money-lender? 
Yes,  I  can  see  by  your  faces  you  did.  Well,  he 
was  my  mother's  brother,  and  he  died  without  a 
will  when  I  was  a  child,  and  the  whole  lot  came 
to  me!" 

"  A  million  and  a  quarter,"  some  one  murmured. 

"  More,"  Macheson  answered.  "  I  was  at  Oxford 
when  I  understood  exactly  the  whole  business,  and 
it  seemed  like  nothing  but  a  curse  to  me.  Then 
I  talked  to  the  dear  old  professor,  and  he  showed 
me  the  way.  I  can  honestly  say  that  not  one 
penny  of  that  money  has  ever  been  spent,  directly 
or  indirectly,  upon  myself.  I  believe  that  if  the 
old  man  could  come  to  life  and  read  my  bank-book 
he'd  have  a  worse  fit  than  the  one  which  carried 
him  off.  I  appointed  myself  the  trustee  of  his 
fortune,  and  it's  spread  pretty  well  all  over  the 
world.  I've  never  refused  to  stand  at  the  back 
of  any  reasonable  scheme  for  the  betterment  of 
our  fellow-creatures.  There  have  been  a  few  failures 
perhaps,  but  many  successes.  The  Davis  buildings 
are  mine  —  in  trust,  of  course.  They've  done 
well.  I've  a  larger  scheme  on  hand  now  on  the 
same  lines.  And  in  spite  of  it  all  the  money  grows! 
I  can't  get  rid  of  it.  The  old  man  chose  his  invest- 
ments well,  and  many  of  our  purely  philanthropic 
schemes  are  beginning  to  pay  their  way.  It  isn't 
that  I  care  a  fig  about  the  money,  but  you  must 


294  THE  MISSIONER 

try  to  make  these  things  self-supporting,  or  you 
injure  the  character  of  those  who  benefit  by  them. 
Now  I've  told  you  all  the  truth,  but  don't  let  it  go 
out  of  this  room.  You  can  consider  yourselves 
fellow-trustees  with  me,  if  you  like.  Show  me 
an  honest  way  to  use  money  for  the  real  benefit  of 
the  world's  unfortunates,  and  it's  yours  as  much 
as  mine." 

"It's  magnificent,"  Franklin  murmured. 

"It's  justice,"  Macheson  answered.  "The  money 
was  wrung  from  the  poor,  and  it  goes  back  to  them. 
Perhaps  it's  a  saner  distribution,  for  it's  the  im- 
provident and  shiftless  of  the  world  who  go  to  the 
money-lender." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  The  hall-porter  of 
the  club  in  which  they  were  holding  their  informal 
meeting  entered  and  addressed  Macheson. 

"I  beg  your  parden,  sir,"  he  said,  "but  there  is  a 
young  man  here  who  wants  to  see  you  at  once.  He 
would  not  give  his  name,  but  he  says  that  his  business 
is  urgent." 

"Where  is  he?"  Macheson  asked. 

"In  the  smaller  strangers'  room,  sir." 

Macheson  excused  himself,  and,  crossing  the  hall, 
entered  the  barely  furnished  apartment,  on  the  left 
of  the  entrance.  A  young  man  was  walking  up  and 
down  with  fierce,  restless  movements.  He  was  pale, 
untidily  dressed,  and  in  his  eyes  there  was  a  curious 
look  of  terror,  as  though  all  the  time  he  saw  beyond 
the  walls  of  the  room  things  which  kept  him  breath- 
less with  fear.  Macheson,  pausing  for  a  moment  on 
the  threshold,  failed  on  the  instant  to  recognize  him. 
Then  he  closed  the  door  and  advanced  into  the  room. 


THE  ONLY  WAY  295 

"Hurd!"  he  exclaimed.  "What  do  you  want? 
What  is  the  matter?" 

"Matter  enough/'  Hurd  declared  wildly.  "I 
have  been  a  fool  and  a  blackguard.  Those  two  got 
round  me  —  the  old  man  and  his  cursed  step-son!  I 
must  have  been  mad!" 

"What  have  you  done?"  Macheson  asked  sharply. 

"She  treated  me  badly,"  Hurd  continued,  "made 
a  fool  of  me  before  you,  and  turned  me  away  from 
Thorpe.  I  wanted  to  cry  quits  with  her,  and  those 
two  got  hold  of  me.  Jean  le  Roi  is  her  husband. 
She  refused  to  see  him  —  to  hear  from  him.  Letty 
Foulton  is  there,  and  I  have  been  allowed  to.  visit 
her.  I  knew  the  back  way  in,  and  I  took  Jean  le 
Roi  there  —  an  hour  ago  —  and  he  is  waiting  in  her 
room  until  she  comes  home!" 

"Good  God!"  Macheson  murmured.  "You  un- 
speakable blackguard!" 

He  glanced  at  the  clock.     It  was  past  midnight. 

"What  time  was  she  expected  home?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"Soon  after  eleven!  She  was  only  dining  out. 
He  —  he  swore  that  he  only  wanted  to  talk  to  her,  to 
threaten  her  with  exposure.  She  deserved  that! 
But  he  is  a  madman.  When  I  left  him  I  was  afraid. 
He  carries  a  knife  always,  and  he  kept  on  saying 
that  she  was  his  wife.  I  left  him  there  waiting  — 
and  when  I  wanted  him  to  promise  that  there  should 
be  no  violence,  he  laughed  at  me.  He  is  hidden  in 
her  room.  I  thought  that  it  was  only  money  he 
wanted  —  but  —  but " 

Macheson  flung  him  on  one  side.  He  caught  up 
his  hat  and  rushed  out  of  the  club. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

MAN  TO  MAN 

HORTENSE  smiled  softly  to  herself  as  she  laid 
down  the  ivory-backed  brushes.  What  did  it 
mean,  she  wondered,  when  her  mistress  went  out 
with  tired  eyes  and  pallid  cheeks,  a-nd  came  home 
with  the  colour  of  a  rose  and  eyes  like  stars,  humming 
an  old  French  love-song,  and  her  feet  moving  all  the 
time  to  some  unheard  music?  It  was  years  since 
she  had  seen  her  like  this!  Hortense  knew  the 
signs  and  was  well  pleased.  At  last,  then,  the  house- 
hold was  to  be  properly  established.  A  woman  as 
beautiful  as  her  mistress  without  a  lover  was  to 
Hortense  an  incomprehensible  thing. 

"You  can  go  now,  Hortense,"  her  mistress  ordered. 
"I  will  have  my  coffee  half  an  hour  earlier  to-morrow 
morning." 

"  Very  good,  madame,"  the  girl  answered.  "There 
is  nothing  else  to-night,  then?  " 

"Nothing,  thank  you,"  Wilhelmina  answered. 
"You  had  better  go  to  bed  now.  I  have  been  keep- 
ing you  up  rather  late  the  last  few  evenings.  We 
must  both  turn  over  a  new  leaf." 

Hortense  departed,  smiling  to  herself.  It  was 
always  like  this  —  when  it  came,  One  thought  of 


MAN  TO  MAN  297 

others  and  one  wanted  to  be  alone.  STie,  too, 
hummed  a  few  bars  of  that  love-song  as  she  climbed 
the  stairs  to  her  room. 

Wilhelmina  rose  from  her  chair  and  stood  for  a 
moment  looking  at  herself  in  the  long,  oval  looking- 
glass.  Hortense  had  chosen  for  her  a  French 
dressing-jacket,  with  the  palest  of  light  blue  ribbons 
drawn  through  the  lace.  Wilhelmina  looked  at  her- 
self and  smiled.  Was  it  the  light,  the  colouring, 
or  was  she  really  still  so  good  to  look  at?  Her  hair, 
falling  over  her  shoulders,  was  long  and  silky,  the 
lines  seemed  to  have  been  smoothed  out  of  her  face 
—  she  was  like  herself  when  she  had  been  a  girl ! 
She  followed  the  slender  lines  of  her  figure,  down 
past  the  lace  of  her  petticoat  to  her  feet,  still  encased 
in  her  evening  slippers  with  diamond  buckles,  and 
she  laughed  softly  to  herself.  What  was  she  yet 
but  a  girl?  Fate  had  cheated  her  of  some  of  the 
years,  but  she  was  barely  twenty-five.  How  won- 
derful to  be  young  still  and  feel  one's  blood  flow 
to  music  like  this!  Her  thoughts  ran  riot.  Her 
mouth  trembled  and  a  deeper  colour  stained  her 
cheeks.  Then  she  heard  a  voice  behind  her,  a  living 
voice  in  her  room.  And  as  swiftly  as  those  other 
mysterious  thoughts  had,stolen  into  her  heart,  came 
the  chill  of  a  deadly,  indescribable  fear. 

"Charming!  Ravishing!  It  is  almost  worth  the 
six  years  of  waiting,  dear  wife!" 

She  began  to  tremble.  She  could  not  have  called 
out  or  framed  any  intelligible  sentence  to  save  her 
life.  It  was  like  a  nightmare.  The  horror  was 
there,  without  the  power  of  movement  or  speech. 

He  moved  his  position  and  came  within  the  range 


298  THE  MISSIONER 

of  her  terrified  vision.  Hurd's  twenty  pounds  and  a 
little  more  added  to  it  had  done  wonders.  He  wore 
correct  evening  clothes,  correctly  worn.  Except  for 
his  good  looks  —  the  good  looks  of  a  devil  —  he 
would  have  attracted  notice  nowhere.  He  leaned 
against  the  couch,  and  though  his  lips  curled  into  a 
sneer,  there  was  a  flame  ir  his  eyes,  a  horrible  ad- 
miration. 

She  tried  to  pray. 

"You  are  overcome,"  he  murmured  softly.  "Ah! 
Why  not?  Six  years  since  our  happiness  was 
snatched  from  us,  che"rie !  Ah !  but  it  was  cruel !  You 
have  thought  of  me,  I  trust!  You  have  pitied  me! 
Ah!  how  often  I  have  lain  awake  at  night  in  my  cell, 
fondly  imagining  some  such  reunion  —  as  this." 

She  forced  herself  to  speak  through  lips  suddenly 
pale.  What  strange  words  they  sounded,  frozen 
things,  scarcely  audible !  Yet  the  effort  hurt  her. 

"  I  will  give  you  —  the  money,"  she  said.  "  More, 
if  you  will!" 

"Ah!"  he  said  reflectively,  "the  money!  I  had 
forgotten  that.  It  was  not  kind  of  you  to  run  away 
and  hide,  little  woman!  It  was  not  kind  of  you 
to  send  me  nothing  when  I  was  in  prison!  Oh!  I 
suffered,  I  can  tell  you!  There  is  a  good  deal  to  be 
made  up  for!  Pet,  if  you  had  not  reminded  me, 
just  now  these  things  seem  so  little.  Dear  little  wife, 
you  are  enchanting.  Almost  you  turn  my  head." 

He  came  slowly  towards  her.  She  threw  up  her 
hands. 

"Wait!"  she  begged,  "oh,  wait!  Listen!  I  am 
in  your  power.  I  admit  it.  I  will  make  terms.  I 
will  sign  anything.  What  is  it  that  you  want? 


MAN  TO  MAN  299 

You  shall  be  rich,  but  you  must  go  away.    You  must 
leave  me  now!" 

He  looked  at  her  steadily  and  it  seemed  to  her 
that  his  eyes  were  on  fire  with  evil  things. 

"Little  wife,"  he  said,  with  a  shade  of  mockery 
in  his  lowered  tone.  "I  cannot  do  that.  Consider 
how  you  were  snatched  from  my  arms!  Consider 
the  cruelty  of  it.  As  for  the  money  —  bah !  I  have 
come  to  claim  my  own.  Don't  you  understand, 
you  bewitching  little  fool?  It  is  you  I  want!  The 
money  can  wait!  I  cannot!" 

He  came  nearer  still  and  she  shrank,  like  a  terrified 
dumb  thing,  against  her  magnificent  dressing-table, 
with  its  load  of  priceless  trinkets.  She  tried  to  call 
out,  but  her  voice  seemed  gone,  and  he  only  laughed 
as  he  laid  his  hand  over  her  mouth  and  drew  her 
gently  towards  him.  With  a  sudden  unnatural 
strength  she  wrested  herself  from  his  arms. 

"Oh!  listen  to  me,  listen  to  me  for  one  moment 
first,"  she  begged  frantically.  "It's  true  that  I 
married  you,  but  it  was  all  a  plot  —  and  I  was  a 
child!  You  shall  have  your  share  of  my  money? 
Leave  me  alone  and  I  swear  it!  You  shall  be  rich! 
You  can  go  back  to  Paris  and  be  an  adventurer 
no  longer.  You  shall  spend  your  own  money.  You 
can  live  your  own  life!" 

Even  then  her  brain  moved  quickly.  She  dared 
not  speak  of  Annette,  for  fear  of  making  him  des- 
perate. It  was  his  cupidity  to  which  she  appealed. 
"I  am  no  wife  of  yours,"  she  moaned.  "You 
shall  have  more  money  than  you  ever  had  before  in 
your  life.  But  don't  make  me  kill  myself!  For  I 
shall,  if  you  touch  me!" 


300  THE  MISSIONER 

He  was  so  close  to  her  now  that  his  hot  breath 
scorched  her  cheek. 

"Is  it  that  another  has  taken  my  place?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes!  —  no!  that  is,  there  is  some  one  whom  I 
love/'  she  cried.  "Listen!  You  know  what  you 
can  do  with  money  in  Paris.  Anything!  Every- 
thing!" 

He  was  so  close  to  her  now  that  the  words  died 
away  upon  her  lips. 

"Little  wife,"  he  whispered,  "don't  you  under- 
stand —  that  I  am  a  man,  and  that  it  is  you  I  want?  " 

Again  she  tried  to  scream,  but  his  hand  covered 
her  mouth.  His  arm  was  suddenly  around  her. 
Then  he  started  back  with  an  oath  and  looked  to- 
wards the  door  of  her  bedroom. 

"  Who  is  in  that  room?  "  he  asked  quickly. 

"My  maid,"  she  lied. 

He  took  a  quick  step  across  the  room.  The  door 
was  flung  open  and  Macheson  entered.  Wilhelmina 
Fainted,  but  forced  herself  back  into  consciousness 
with  a  sheer  effort  of  will.  Sobbing  and  laughing 
at  the  same  time,  she  tried  to  drag  herself  towards 
the  bell,  but  Jean  le  Roi  stood  in  the  way.  Jean  le 
Roi  was  calm  but  wicked. 

"What  are  you  doing  in  my  wife's  bedroom?"  he 
asked. 

"I  am  here  to  see  you  out  of  the  house,"  Macheson 
answered,  with  one  breathless  glance  around  the 
room.  "Will  you  come  quietly?" 

"Out  of  my  own  house?"  Jean  le  Roi  said  softly. 
*'  Out  of  my  wife's  room?  Who  are  you?  " 

"  Never  mind,"  Macheson  answered.     "  Her  friend ! 


THE    BONE    SNAPPED,    AND     THE    KNIFE     FELL     FROM    THE    NERVELESS 

FINGERS.    Page  301 


MAN  TO  MAN  301 

Let  that  be  enough.  And  let  me  tell  you  this.  If 
I  had  come  too  late  I  would  have  wrung  your  neck." 

Jean  le  Roi  sprang  at  him  like  a  cat,  his  legs  off 
the  ground,  one  arm  around  the  other's  neck,  and 
something  gleaming  in  his  right  hand.  Nothing 
but  Macheson's  superb  strength  saved  him.  He 
risked  being  throttled,  and  caught  Jean  le  Roi's 
right  arm  in  such  a  grip  that  he  swung  him  half 
round  the  room.  The  bone  snapped,  and  the  knife 
fell  from  the  nerveless  fingers.  But  Macheson  let 
go  a  second  too  soon.  Jean  le  Roi  had  all  the 
courage  and  the  insensibility  to  pain  of  a  brute 
animal.  He  stretched  out  his  foot,  and  with  a  trick 
of  his  old  days,  tripped  Macheson  so  that  he  fell 
heavily.  Jean  le  Roi  bent  over  him  on  his  knees,, 
breathing  heavily,  and  with  murder  in  his  eyes. 
Macheson  scarcely  breathed!  He  lay  perfectly  still. 
Jean  le  Roi  staggered  to  his  feet  and  turned  towards 
Wilhelmina. 

"You  see,  madame,"  he  said,  seizing  her  by  the 
wrist,  "how  I  shall  deal  with  your  lovers  if  there  are 
any  more  of  them.  No  use  tugging  at  that  bell.  I 
saw  to  that  before  you  came!  I'm  used  to  fighting 
for  what  I  want,  and  I  think  I've  won  you ! " 

He  caught  her  into  his  arms,  but  suddenly  released 
her  with  a  low  animal  cry.  He  knew  that  this  was 
the  end,  for  he  was  pinioned  from  behind,  a  child  in 
the  mighty  grip  which  held  him  powerless.  "You. 
are  a  little  too  hasty,  my  friend,"  Macheson  re- 
marked. "I  was  afraid  I  might  not  be  so  quick  as 
you  on  my  feet,  so  I  rested  for  a  moment.  But  no 
man  has  ever  escaped  from  this  grip  till  I  chose  to 
let  him  go.  Now,"  he  added,  turning  to  Wilhelmina, 


302  THE  MISSIONER 

"  the  way  is  clear.  Will  you  go  outside  and  rouse 
the  servants?  Don't  come  back." 

"  You  are  —  quite  safe?  "  she  faltered. 

"  Absolutely,"  he  answered.  "  I  could  hold  him 
with  one  hand." 

Jean  le  Hoi  lifted  his  head.  His  brain  was  working 
swiftly. 

"  Listen!  "  he  exclaimed.  "  It  is  finished!  I  am 
beaten!  I,  Jean  le  Roi,  admit  defeat.  Why  call  in 
servants?  The  affair  is  better  finished  between  our- 
selves." 

Wilhelmina  paused.  In  that  first  great  rush  of 
relief,  she  had  not  stopped  to  think  that  with  Jean 
le  Roi  a  prisoner,  and  herself  as  prosecutrix,  the 
whole  miserable  story  must  be  published.  He 
continued. 

"  Give  me  money,"  he  said,  "  only  a  half  of  what 
you  offered  me  just  now,  and  you  shall  have  your 
freedom." 

Wilhelmina  smiled.  Something  of  the  joy  of  a 
few  hours  ago  came  faintly  back  to  her. 

"  I  have  already  that,"  she  answered.  "  I  learnt 
the  truth  to-night." 

Jean  le  Roi  shrugged  his  shoulders.  The  game 
was  up  then!  What  an  evening  of  disasters! 

"  Let  me  go,"  he  said.     "  I  ask  no  more." 

Wilhelmina  and  Macheson  exchanged  glances. 
She  vanished  into  her  room  for  a  moment,  and  re- 
appeared in  a  long  wrapper. 

"  Come  with  me  softly,"  she  said,  "  and  I  will  let 
you  out." 

So  they  three  went  on  tiptoe  down  the  broad 
stairs.  Macheson  and  Wilhelmina  exchanged  no 


MAN  TO  MAN  303 

words.  Yet  they  both  felt  that  the  future  was 
different  for  them. 

"You  can  give  Mr.  Macheson  your  address," 
Wilhelmina  said,  as  they  stood  at  the  front  door. 
"I  will  send  you  something  to  help  you  make  a 
fresh  start." 

But  Jean  le  Roi  laughed. 

"I  play  only  for  the  great  stakes,"  he  murmured, 
with  a  swagger,  "and  when  I  lose  —  I  lose." 

So  he  vanished  into  the  darkness,  and  Macheson 
and  Wilhelmina  remained  with  clasped  hands. 

"To-morrow,"  he  whispered,  stooping  and  kissing 
her  fingers. 

"To-morrow,"  she  repeated.  "Thank  God  you 
came  to-night!" 

She  was  too  weary,  too  happy  to  ask  for  explana- 
tions, and  he  offered  none.  All  the  time,  as  he 
crossed  the  Square  and  turned  towards  his  house, 
those  words  rang  in  his  ears  —  To-morrow ! 


CHAPTER  XVII 

LORD  AND  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

DEYES  caught  a  vision  of  blue  in  the  window,  and 
crossed  the  lawn.  Lady  Peggy  leaned  over 
the  low  sill.  Between  them  was  only  a  fragrant 
border  of  hyacinths. 

"You  know  that  our  host  and  hostess  have  de- 
serted us?"  she  asked. 

He  nodded. 

"They  have  gone  over  to  this  wonderful  Con- 
valescent Home  that  Macheson  is  building  in  the 
hills,"  he  remarked.  "I  am  not  sure  that  I  con- 
sider it  good  manners  to  leave  us  to  entertain  one 
another." 

"I  am  not  sure,"  she  said,  "that  it  is  proper. 
Wilhelmina  should  have  considered  that  we  are  her 
only  guests." 

She  sat  down  in  the  window-sill  and  leaned  back 
against  the  corner.  She  had  slept  well,  and  she 
was  not  afraid  of  the  sunshine  —  blue,  too,  was  her 
most  becoming  colour.  He  looked  at  her  admir- 
ingly. 

"You  are  really  looking  very  well  this  morning," 
he  said. 

"Thank  you,"  she  answered.  "I  was  expecting 
that." 


LORD  AND  LADY  BOUNTIFUL         305 

"I  wonder/'  he  said,  "how  you  others  discover 
the  secret  of  eternal  youth.  You  and  Macheson  and 
Wilhelmina  all  look  younger  than  you  did  last  year. 
I  seem  to  be  getting  older  all  by  myself." 

She  looked  at  him  critically.  There  were  cer- 
tainly more  lines  about  his  face  and  the  suspicion 
of  crow's-feet  about  his  tired  eyes. 

"Age,"  she  said,  "is  simply  a  matter  of  volition. 
You  wear  yourself  out  fretting  for  the  impossible!" 

"One  has  one's  desires,"  he  murmured. 

"But  you  should  learn,"  she  said,  "to  let  your 
desires  be  governed  by  your  reason.  It  is  a  foolish 
thing  to  want  what  you  may  not  have." 

"You  think  that  it  is  like  that  with  me?"  he 
asked. 

"All  the  world  knows,"  she  answered,  "that  you 
are  in  love  with  Wilhelmina!" 

"One  must  be  in  love  with  someone,"  he  remarked. 

"Naturally!  But  why  choose  a  woman  who  is 
head  and  ears  in  love  with  some  one  else?" 

"It  cannot  last,"  he  answered,  "she  has  married 
him." 

Lady  Peggy  reached  out  for  a  cushion  and  placed 
it  behind  her  head. 

"That  certainly  would  seem  hopeful  in  the  case  of 
an  ordinary  woman —  myself,  for  instance,"  she  said. 
"But  Wilhelmina  is  not  an  ordinary  woman.  She 
always  would  do  things  differently  from  other 
people.  I  don't  want  to  make  you  more  unhappy 
than  you  are,  but  I  honestly  believe  that  Wilhelmina 
is  going  to  set  a  new  fashion.  She  is  going  to  try 
and  re-establish  the  life  domestic  amongst  the  upper 
classes." 


306  THE  MISSIONER 

"She  always  was  such  a  reformer,"  he  sighed. 

Lady  Peggy  nodded  sympathetically. 

"Of  course,  one  can't  tell  how  it  may  turn  out," 
she  continued,  "but  at  present  they  seem  to  have 
turned  life  into  a  sort  of  Garden  of  Eden,  and  do 
you  know  I  can't  help  fancying  that  there  isn't  the 
slightest  chance  for  the  serpent.  Wilhelmina  is  so 
fearfully  obstinate." 

"The  thing  will  cloy!"  he  declared. 

"I  fancy  not,"  she  answered.  "You  see,  they 
don't  live  on  sugar-plums.  Victor  Macheson  is  by 
way  of  being  a  masterful  person,  and  Wilhelmina 
is  only  just  beginning  to  realize  the  fascination  of 
being  ruled.  Frankly,  Gilbert,  I  don't  think  there's 
the  slightest  chance  for  you!" 

He  sighed. 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  right,"  he  said  regretfully. 
"I  began  to  realize  it  last  night,  when  we  went  into 
the  library  unexpectedly,  and  Wilhelmina  blushed. 
No  self-respecting  woman  ought  to  blush  when 
she  is  discovered  being  kissed  by  her  own  hus- 
band." 

"Wilhelmina,"  Lady  Peggy  said,  stretching  out 
her  hand  for  one  of  Deyes'  cigarettes,  "may  live  to 
astonish  us  yet,  but  of  one  thing  I  am  convinced. 
She  will  never  even  realize  the  other  sex  except 
through  her  own  husband.  I  am  afraid  she  will 
grow  narrow  —  I  should  hate  to  write  as  her  epitaph 
that  she  was  an  affectionate  wife  and  devoted 
mother  —  but  I  am  perfectly  certain  that  that  is 
what  it  will  come  to." 

"In  that  case,"  Deyes  remarked  gloomily,  "I 
may  as  well  go  away." 


LORD  AND  LADY  BOUNTIFUL        307 

"No!  I  shouldn't  do  that,"  Lady  Peggy  said. 
"  I  should  try  to  alter  my  point  of  view." 

"  Direct  me,  please,"  be  begged. 

"I  should  try,"  she  continued,  "to  put  a  bridle 
upon  my  desires  and  take  up  the  reins.  You  could 
lead  them  in  a  more  suitable  direction." 

"For  instance?" 

"There  is  myself,"  she  declared. 

He  laughed  quietly. 

"You!"  he  repeated.  "Why,  you  are  the  most 
incorrigible  flirt  in  Christendom.  You  would  no 
more  tie  yourself  up  with  one  man  than  enter  a 
nunnery." 

She  sighed. 

"I  have  always  been  misunderstood,"  she  de- 
clared, looking  at  him  pathetically  out  of  her 
delightful  eyes.  "What  you  call  my  flirtations 
have  been  simply  my  attempts,  more  or  less  clumsy, 
to  gain  a  husband.  I  have  been  most  unlucky.  No 
one  ever  proposes  to  me!" 

He  laughed  derisively. 

"Your  victims  have  been  too  loquacious,"  he 
replied.  "  How  about  Gayton,  who  went  to  Africa 
because  you  offered  to  be  his  friend,  and  Horris  - 
he  came  to  my  rooms  to  tell  me  all  about  it  the  day 
you  refused  him,  and  Sammy  Palliser  —  you  treated 
him  shockingly!" 

"I  had  forgotten  them,"  she  admitted.  "They 
were  nice  men,  too,  all  of  them,  but  they  all  made 
the  same  mistake.  I  remember  now  they  did  pro- 
pose to  me.  That,  of  course,  was  fatal." 

"I  scarcely  see  -  — "he  began. 

She  patted  him  gently  on  the  arm 


308  ? Hfe  MISSIONER 

"My  dear  Gilbert,"  she  said,  "haven't  I  always 
said  that  I  never  intend  to  marry  any  one  who  pro- 
poses to  me?  When  I  have  quite  made  up  my 
mind,  I  am  going  to  do  the  proposing  myself!" 

"Whether  it  is  Leap  Year  or  not?"  he  asked. 

"Decidedly!"  she  answered.  "Men  can  always 
shuffle  out  of  a  Leap  Year  declaration.  My  man 
won't  be  able  to  escape.  I  can  promise  you  that." 

"Does  he  —  exist  then?"  Deyes  asked. 

She  laughed  softly. 

"  He's  existed  for  a  good  many  years  more  than  I 
have,"  she  answered.  "I  wasn't  thinking  of  marry- 
ing a  baby." 

"Ah!     Does  he  know?" 

"  Well,  I'm  not  sure,"  she  said  thoughtfully.  "  He 
ought  to,  but  he's  such  a  stupid  person." 

It  was  then  that  Gilbert  Deyes  received  the  shock 
of  his  life.  He  discovered  quite  suddenly  that  her 
eyes  were  fulLof  tears.  For  the  first  time  for  many 
years  he  nearly  lost  his  head. 

"Perhaps,"  he  suggested,  dropping  his  voice 
and  astonished  to  find  that  it  was  not  quite  so 
steady  as  usual,  "he  has  been  waiting!" 

"I  am  afraid  not,"  she  answered,  looking  down 
for  a  moment  at  the  buckle  in  her  waistband. 

He  looked  round. 

"If  only  he  were  here  now,"  he  said.  "Could 
one  conceive  a  more  favourable  opportunity?  An 
April  morning,  sunshine,  flowers,  everything  in  the 
air  to  make  him  forget  that  he  is  an  old  fogey  and 
doesn't  deserve  - 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his,  now  deliciously  wet. 
Her  brows  were  delicately  uplifted. 


LORD  AND  LADY  BOUNTIFUL        309 

"I  couldn't  do  it,"  she  murmured,  "unless  he 
were  in  the  same  room." 

Deyes  stepped  over  the  hyacinths  and  vaulted 
through  the  window. 

Wilhelmina  selected  a  freshly  cut  tree-stump, 
carefully  brushed  away  the  sawdust,  and  sat  down. 
Macheson  chose  another  and  lighted  a  cigarette. 
Eventually  they  decided  that  they  were  too  far 
away,  and  selected  a  tree-trunk  where  there  was 
room  for  both.  Wilhelmina  unrolled  a  plan,  and 
glancing  now  and  then  at  the  forest  of  scaffold 
poles  to  their  left,  proceeded  to  try  to  realize  the 
incomplete  building.  Macheson  watched  her  with 
a  smile.  , 

"  Victor,"  she  exclaimed,  "you  are  not  to  laugh 
at  me!  Remember  this  is  my  first  attempt  at 
doing  anything  —  worth  doing,  and,  of  course,  I'm 
keen  about  it.  Are  you  sure  we  shall  have  enough 
bedrooms?" 

"Enough  for  a  start,  at  any  rate,"  he  answered. 
"We  can  always  add  to  it." 

She  looked  once  more  at  that  forest  of  poles,  at 
the  slowly  rising  walls,  through  whose  empty  win- 
dows one  could  see  pictures  of  the  valley  below. 

"One  can  build-  '  she  murmured,  "one  can 
build  always.  But  think,  Victor,  what  a  lot  of 
time  I  wasted  before  I  knew  you.  I  might  have 
done  so  much." 

He  smiled  reassuringly. 

"There  is  plenty  of  time,"  he  declared.  "Better 
to  start  late  and  build  on  a  sure  foundation,  you 
know.  A  good  many  of  my  houses  had  to  come 


310  THE  MISSIONER 

down  as  fast  as  they  went  up.  Do  you  remember, 
for  instance,  how  I  wanted  to  convert  all  your 
villagers  by  storm?" 

She  smiled. 

"  Still  —  I'm  glad  you  came  to  try,"  she  said  softly. 
"That  horrid  foreman  is  watching  us,  Victor.  I  am 
going  to  look  the  other  way." 

"He  has  gone  now,"  Macheson  said,  slipping  his 
arm  around  her  waist.  "  Dear,  do  you  know  I  don't 
think  that  one  person  can  build  very  well  alone. 
It's  a  cold  sort  of  building  when  it's  finished  —  the 
life  built  by  a  lonely  man.  I  like  the  look  of  our 
palace  better,  Wilhelmina." 

"I  should  like  to  know  where  my  part  comes  in?" 
she  asked. 

"Every  room,"  he  answered,  "will  need  adorning, 
and  the  lamps  —  one  person  alone  can  never  keep 
them  alight,  and  we  don't  want  them  to  go  out, 
Wilhelmina.  Do  you  remember  the  old  German, 
who  said  that  beautiful  thoughts  were  the  finest 
pictures  to  hang  upon  your  walls?  Think  of  next 
spring,  when  we  shall  hear  the  children  from  that 
miserable  town  running  about  in  the  woods,  picking 
primroses  —  do  you  see  how  yellow  they  are  against 
the  green  moss?" 

Wilhelmina  rose. 

"I  must  really  go  and  pick  some,"  she  said. 
"What  about  your  pheasants,  Victor?" 

He  laughed. 

"I'll  find  plenty  of  sport,  never  fear,"  he  answered, 
"without  keeping  the  kiddies  shut  out.  Why,  the 
country  belongs  to  them !  It's,  their  birthright,  not 
ours." 


LORD  AND  LADY  BOUNTIFUL        311 

They  walked  through  the  plantation  side  by  side. 
The  ground  was  still  soft  with  the  winter's  rains,  but 
everywhere  the  sunlight  came  sweeping  in,  up  the 
glade  and  across  the  many  stretching  arms  of  tender 
blossoming  green.  The  ground  was  starred  with 
primroses,  and  in  every  sheltered  nook  were  violets. 
A  soft  west  wind  blew  in  their  faces  as  they  emerged 
into  the  country  lane.  Below  them  was  the  valley, 
hung  with  a  faint  blue  mist;  all  around  them  the 
song  of  birds,  the  growing  sounds  of  the  stirring 
season.  Stephen  Hurd  came  cantering  by,  and 
stopped  for  a  moment  to  speak  about  some  matter 
connected  with  the  estates. 

"My  love  to  Letty,"  Wilhelmina  said  graciously, 
as  he  rode  off.  Then  she  turned  to  Macheson. 

"Stephen  Hurd  is  a  little  corner  in  your  house," 
she  remarked. 

"In  our  house,"  he  protested.  "I  should  never 
have  considered  him  if  he  had  not  worked  out  his 
own  salvation.  If  he  had  reached  me  ten  minutes 
later  - 

She  gripped  his  arm. 

"  Don't,"  she  begged. 

He  laughed. 

"  Don't  ever  brood  over  grisly  impossibilities,"  he 
said.  "The  man  never  breathed  who  could  have 
kept  you  from  me.  Across  the  hills  home,  or  are 
your  shoes  too  thin?" 

He  swung  open  the  gate,  and  they  passed  through, 
only  to  descend  the  other  side,  along  the  broad 
green  walk  strewn  with  grey  rocks  and  bordered 
with  gorse  bushes,  aglow  with  yellow  blossom. 
They  skirted  the  fir  plantation,  received  the  respect- 


312  THE  MISSIONER 

ful  greetings  of  Mrs.  Green  at  the  gamekeeper's 
cottage,  and,  crossing  the  lower  range  of  hills,  ap- 
proached the  house  by  the  back  avenue.  And 
Wilhelmina  laughed  softly  as  they  passed  along  the 
green  lane,  for  her  thoughts  travelled  back  to  one 
wild  night  when,  with  upraised  skirts  and  flying, 
trembling  footsteps,  she  had  sped  along  into  a  new 
world.  She  clung  to  her  husband's  arm. 

"I  came  this  way,  dear,  when  I  set  out  that  night 
-  to  kiss  you." 

He  stooped  down  and  kissed  her  full  on  the  lips. 

"A  nice  state  you  flung  me  into,"  he  remarked. 

"It  was  rather  an  exciting  evening,"  she  said 
demurely. 

They  walked  straight  into  the  morning-room, 
which  was  indiscreet,  and  Wilhelmina  screamed. 

"Peggy,"  she  cried,  "Peggy,  you  bad  girl!" 

The  two  women  went  off  together,  of  course,  to 
talk  about  it,  and  Deyes  and  Macheson,  like  English- 
men all  the  world  over,  muttered  something  barely 
comprehensible,  and  then  looked  at  one  another 
awkwardly. 

"Care  for  a  game  of  billiards?"  Macheson  sug- 
gested. 

"Right  oh!"  Deyes  answered,  in  immense  relief. 


THE  END 


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